133: Any other business

Who was it who said; ‘A committee is an animal with four back legs?’ I was staring out of the window to where the new trench, for the new water pipe, was being dug. Then I remembered, John Le Carre in The Honourable Schoolboy, I think? The fact I had time to cogitate, and remember the quote and ponder its source, is a measure of how distracted, or do I mean dissociated, one becomes whilst chairing the club dining committee these days.

Health had somehow crept onto the agenda, or rather the lack of it. As I let them ramble a little longer, the thought occurred that it may have been the influence of Sparkwell at the Spa and Sports Committee that had caused the subject to somehow jump domains, escaping their ‘safe space’ and invading ours! We were on the final item, a routine review of the menu, but somehow it had morphed into the obesity crisis, the psychological impact of our alleged comfort food, and now, the detrimental effects of food additives.

‘But we must consider our activities in the context of the climate crisis.’ Tuffy lobbed in from left field.

‘Enough!’ I asserted. ‘We’re drifting, gentlemen.’

‘Perhaps we need a new committee?’ Added another.

‘We've got four already! Every extra layer of management makes us less efficient and can only lead to higher fees in the future. Now, can we please move on to any other business.’ They had none, thank goodness. But I did; ‘There is one matter I think we should give thought to, the forthcoming official visit of our new MP, the issue being how much she needs to be, well, managed?’

‘Has anyone met the woman? I hear she’s a bloody Trot, sounds like trouble to me.’

Discretion prevents me naming the individual. I simply mused; ‘Well I’ve been in the same room as her a couple of times, can’t say I gleaned much about her.’ Now I concede, I was ‘perhaps being economical with the truth’, but I did want to keep control, make myself Brenda’s personal guide.

‘Well, I don’t imagine any of us have got even that close, I vote the chair should take on the responsibility, I don’t see it’s any business of ours.’ Thank you Tuffy, I thought to myself, somehow our association still worked, even if only unconsciously.

‘I don’t think there’s any need for us to vote on this, Tony?’ Said someone else.

‘So be it. Meeting closed.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Oh, good lord, look at the time, Sparkwell is having guests for tea. I must go.’

As I was legging it down the corridor, Cat drew alongside; ‘Your meeting, finally over?’

‘Finally. But I’m late for a Sparkwell tea now!’

‘Oh dear. Still, this will only take a minute.’

‘And?’

‘Tuffy has gone a bit off-piste again, been boasting in the bar, more than once, about Charlie having tattoos, getting chaps to guess how many, and where.’

‘Not the act of a gentleman. There’s only one he could know about, and that from an accidental glance.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, as a gentleman! Clearly, he’s been colouring his narrative.’

‘Leave it with me.’

As I entered our jolly home, via the pantry, a tall young male figure with wayward hair but a reassuring lack of face adornment, sprang to his feet. This was Timothy at close quarters.

‘Pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve been hearing all about the Arlington Trust.’ Rather formal I thought.

‘Excellent. Apologies for my lateness, delayed by a committee. You’ve had a tour of the garden?’

‘I came in the back way.’

‘How are you Mel, been a while?’

The conversation was a little stilted for five minutes or so, as everyone repeated everything, that had been said before I arrived. Then I pitched in; ‘My thought Tim, was that if you were prepared to take us on, cash in hand of course, then we might also be able to meet all your work placement requirements from across the Trust.’

‘I’ve seen all the websites. You’re also connected to Checkley Manor I understand, a nice house.’

‘Indeed. Well, we seem to be on the same page. I should tell you however that I’m only one of the trustees of the Trust.’

‘Understood.’

Now I stood up, about to leave for a momentary comfort break; ‘Mel! You want to watch yourself, you may never get rid of this chap.’

Upon my return a few minutes later, there was much ribbed laughter. ‘Tony, Mel won’t tell Tim and me what the infamous “unfortunate incident” at her parents wedding was all about.’

‘Don’t tell them!’ Melisa said, looking rather flushed.

I thought, with the boyfriend present, this might be just the moment; ‘I can’t see why not, you were unwell after all, and a small child wasn’t to know.’

‘This is so embarrassing.’

‘Oh! So, it was Mel herself who was the trouble, even then?’ Chided Charlie.

‘Well, it was more the sound really. She was heard, rather than seen by everyone in the church.’

‘Oh, god.’

‘She threw-up in the baptismal font.’

Charlie was driving us to Crawford Park for the Brenda Radnor visit. We were discussing how the situation should be played. Then I realised I hadn’t told her of Tuffy’s latest misdemeanour.

‘I suppose if it was a day I was wearing my shorts, and had to bend a bit, he might have caught a glimpse. As for the others, not a chance.’

‘You never talked about them?’

‘Not to him.’

‘Well, that’s all much as I’d surmised. I leave appropriate retribution, to your good self.’

The visit started with a coffee in the lounge, then I guided Brenda to the spa. ‘Ah! Here’s someone you should meet. Charlotte Sparkwell, chair of the Spa and Sports Committee, and coincidentally my partner in life. Charlie, meet your local MP.’

They shook hands. ‘You look familiar, have we met?’ Brenda asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But? Wait a moment, I’ve seen your face, several times. I know, it was when I was searching The Beacon for local stories before the election, so you and he are...’

‘Ah, but what a tangled web we weave.’

‘Please, do have a complementary, spa special pro-vitamin drink, this one is apricot, but there are others.’ Charlie interceded.

‘Well, I’ve just had a coffee...’

‘Oh, but you really must try one of Charlie’s pick-me-ups. Entirely organic don’t you know. Works wonders after a late evening.’

‘It’s a recipe of my own invention madam. Mixed using our own spring water.’

Having inspected a sample treatment room, the aqua therapy pool and dodged questions about unionisation, I escorted our representative of the old left, out of the mood-altering aromas into the fresh air surrounding the pond.

She made an excellent choice of question; ‘How do you think our government is doing Tony?’

‘Well, I really only concern myself with local issues, but if pressed I’d say they might be on firmer ground if they went back to fighting the class war. Capital and labour may have opposing interests, but they share the same reality.’

‘Intersectional, woke mob, half the country has gone full tin-foiled hat!’

‘I think we understand each other.’

‘Got any more surprises for me?’

‘Well, maybe just one.’

‘And this is the conference centre. Open for hire, at rates commensurate to its surroundings. Of course it’s easy enough to move the chairs, store the screen etcetera. It was originally the ballroom, with sprung floor, still used for musical evenings.’

‘Very grand.’

‘But also with two withdrawing rooms, one serves as a seminar room for “break-out sessions” as required, the other is our media room, often used as a podcast studio. Oh look! The man himself.’

‘What the hell is he doing here?’

‘Good-day all!’ Said a smiling Don with open arms.

‘Had you not realised? Brenda, let me introduce you to the host of one of our nation’s most popular podcasts, The Don Wooley Show. Treat him right, he might let you be a guest!’

132: Vibe shift

Standing thigh deep in a northern stream, with March winds blowing from the east, is not my kind of a holiday. Fishing has its seasons apparently, fish which may be caught at one time and not at another, although they all get thrown back in the end. It makes little sense to me.

When Charlie is away, I don’t usually give her much thought, out of sight is out of mind. However, I was taking the opportunity of bringing my hand written journal up to date, writing down all those snatches of dialogue that in time form the core of my episodic reminiscences. I draw heavily on these field notes for my prose, ‘where the dialogue carries the weight’, as we writers like to say.

Charlie often claims I have the luck of the devil and she may be right. I’d barely returned the current volume of the journal to the safe, when a sudden draft told me there had been a breach of the back door. A week seems to pass so quickly these days. I sallied forth to greet her. ‘Or right, darling!’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

She can be quite quiet and distant for a while after returning from a trip. It wasn’t until tea, with just the two of us sat opposite each other across the kitchen table, that she opened up; ‘Something really weird happened when I was away.’

‘Oh, good!’

‘What? You’re pleased? You should be concerned!’

‘Bad stuff can be good; one can always gain from disorder.’

‘Anyway, you know how our Wi-Fi connection in the cars has always been good for the last couple of years?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Well, I’ve got all the subscriptions to all of the services and my security is so good it’s almost instant switching. So, hardly any dead locations or interruptions.’

‘Okay. Well where we were staying coverage is practically non-existent, everyone was complaining. Then I suggested they try connecting to the car. So, to cut a long story short, by the end of the week four or five people had realised they could stream videos from anywhere, all at the same time, as long as they were within twenty feet of the vehicle!’ Then she added after a pause; ‘They all wanted to know about it, all I could say was my partner was a real geek and I had no idea how it was done.’

‘Ever heard of a chap called Eltham Makepeace?’

‘Of course I have, he’s the richest man in the world!’

‘Well, that rather depends on the state of global stock markets from one week to the next. But, if he is, then he’s also the largest individual taxpayer in the world, think of that! However, in the marketplace of ideas, he certainly stands alone. But to come to the point, over the last few years his rockets have been launching multiple low-level communication satellites. At first, they covered very isolated or poor areas of the globe, but they’ve spread, Greenland, Iceland, Faroe Islands, arctic Norway, and they often overlap. Even though there is no official UK coverage yet, some of us have been volunteering to turn our vehicles into test dishes...’

‘You and Eltham are tech-bros?!’

‘In a manner of speaking, I don’t know him personally, though we were once in the same room together, I think Barmy has his private numbers.’

‘People worry about their privacy, whether he can be trusted, use our data to make money.’

‘Can’t think why, firstly he has all the money he can possibly want, two, he’s had the highest of security clearances for years because of his innovative rockets. Besides he’s only temporary, part-time, volunteer tech support for the White House. Personally, I find the idea that Eltham may have hacked the president’s brain quite reassuring.’

Charlie gave me what can only be described as a sideways look, opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it. After another pause; ‘Anyway that’s as maybe. I’ve got other news.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I gave a lift part of the way home to Martine.’

‘Ah! Our nation’s leading female angler.’

‘Precisely, sir. We got to talking charities and royal patronage.’

‘Don’t tell me, you couldn’t help showing off your connections, only to have her trump you.’

‘You know? How do you know?’

‘I don’t, I was guessing on the basis that she’s more famous than you, so far.’

‘Yes. I suppose that follows. If I tell you this it must remain on deep, deep background.’

‘Understood.’

‘Well, the royals have always been great fishing people, the Duke used to tutor all his children and grandchildren. People assume they’re sitting on some of the best fishing in the country and access is restricted to the very few.’

‘...And your Martine, with her fame has been getting a taste of it.’

‘This is my story!’

‘Mea culpa, as Frimley would say, pray continue.’

‘She started this charity thing, small fishing groups for people in recovery from one thing or another. And a certain HRH, persuaded Mrs HRH to take tuition from M who then drew her into the group, subsequently she’s agreed to be their patron. But it’s very hush, hush, for now.’

‘Very good.’

‘So, as a thank you Martine has been introduced to a couple of very exclusive locations. Now then, how have you been mis-using your time, sir?’

‘I bought Archie a lunch at the club.’

‘Scheming?’

‘You might think so. I showed him the rogue passports. I wasn’t anticipating him having an answer, but I thought he might know someone in the know. A bank security type. I knew Archie did transactions with the Swiss from time to time, so anyway, he’ll nose around and let me know. Oh, and guess what?’

‘What?’

‘You know, he does make me laugh, Archie. The bank offered him promotion, some manager job higher up the food chain, he turned them down.’

‘How come?’

‘He told them they’d be mad to do so, that they’d make more money by leaving him right where he is! The HR person who made the offer clearly wasn’t aware of how much of the branch’s business comes via him, and what with the Trust benefiting from AI, and Barmy’s military industrial complex coming on board too.’

‘He’s getting quite settled at the club.’

‘He has enough of a salary to meet his needs, he’s in it for the game. He senses the vibe shift, goes with the flow.’

‘Anything else happen?’

‘Spoke to Bernard a couple of times. By the way, he’s made an appointment for the two of you to visit this guy who drew up Ken’s Will. You need to take along all his paperwork, especially stuff on the flat ownership, whilst he will turn up with the official paperwork for making a claim on the estate on behalf of the Trust. The idea is you let the local solicitor be the executor and collect his fee, but have a cosy informal chat about Ken’s relationship with the Aunt, yourself and myself and this place.’

‘Sounds okay.’

‘Tell you what, Bernard and Lawrence seem ever more convinced that advertising at sports grounds brings in business. You know most billboards at grounds are digital these days?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well apparently, they’re all on a global network now, managed by some financial institution. So, you can just go online and purchase time anywhere, anytime.’

‘So, what’s that got to do with us yokels?’

‘Well, that was my reaction, not only do none of our teams qualify for international tournaments, there are times when the number of fans travelling to away matches barely fills a minibus. Yes, I’m suspicious. Maybe Bernard was trying to flush me out, find out how much I knew.’

‘Sport’s not exactly your thing.’

‘Quite! Next time you meet with your co-conspirators, your cabal of the younger generation, you might care to sound them out.’

‘Very good, sir.’

131: Break-in

It happened on the morning of Kenneth Murchison’s funeral. Over the previous few months Charlie, ably assisted by Melisa, had been Ken’s principal carer. He’d asked her to be his executor, but had produced no Will. He simply handed her a smallish package to be opened only after his demise. She’d had me place it in the safe.

Now, on our way to the crematorium with myself at the wheel, she asked to stop by Ken’s flat to check on something or other. As I pulled up and parked, we found ourselves next to a police patrol car containing two male officers casually chatting. Charlie asserted; ‘Somethings up, I recognise one of them. An Inspector Dobson.’

As we locked the vehicle and made towards the apartment, Dobson lowered his window and said; ‘Ms Sparkwell, there’s a gentleman checking out old Murchison’s flat, one of the funnies, court order and all that, we’re just here to maintain the peace, shout if he’s any trouble.’

The front door was open, but didn’t appear to have been forced. ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ Said Charlie, as we tentatively entered.

‘Friend or foe?’ I added for good measure!

I recognised the figure, wearing hat and gloves, who emerged from the bedroom, it said; ‘You are Charlotte Sparkwell. And you, Mr Arlington, we’ve met before. Just routine, no cause for alarm.’

‘Who the hell are you and what do you want?’ She demanded.

‘Standard procedure, when a former employee dies. Can’t be sure they haven’t hung-on to something they shouldn’t have, as it were.’

‘His name is Wieck, Casper Wieck, retired former something or other, with the same, not so secret organisation, which once employed Daphne’s daddy.’ I added helpfully.

‘They asked me to step-in, fact is I’m the last to remember working with Kenneth, odd fellow. Not thought to be one hundred per cent, one of us. Still, all appears as it should be. I’ve tried to make it all look undisturbed, alas, not as decorous as I used to be. Well, I’ll be on my way. Good day to you both.’ At which point he doffed his hat to Charlie for a split second, before toddling off.

And after a pause I said; ‘Well, clearly, he hasn’t taken anything. One up to Ken then.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I assume anything worth retrieving is in our safe!’

‘But I thought that would be a Will, letters and things.’

‘Bit heavy for just that!’

It was a modest sending off. Charlie and myself, Melisa and Daphne plus a few from the book club. But just as we were waiting for the service to begin, I felt a hand on my right shoulder. Turning my head, I saw the other hand on Charlie’s left shoulder. A bowed head said; ‘The funeral pyre is traditional for the nomad.’ Then Wieck sat down behind us.

Funerals are for the living I thought to myself. I’m not much one for church attendance, births, deaths and marriages of course, otherwise I’m a bit of a Christmas and Easter Anglican. Just following the habits of parents, aunts and school really. As the service proceeded, I was distracted by thoughts of the last time I had been sat there. On that occasion the only persons present had been Kenneth and myself, apart from the lady vicarage of course. All three of us masked, there to bare witness to Aunt Elisabeth’s final journey, everyone else had to parade outside in the cold.

Afterwards we held a modest wake at our place. Wieck not invited. And after they’d all gone, I asked; ‘When do you want to open Ken’s parcel?’

‘Soon-ish.’ She replied. ‘Right now, I’m thinking about the garden, we’ll need some expertise to keep us on track, otherwise it will just go into decline again. We’re already behind.’

‘Is Mel still seeing young Timothy?’

‘Yes, but he’s full-time on his course. Probably already fed up with people asking him to do their gardens.’

‘Then offer him a deal.’

‘What kind of deal?’

‘Well, you get Melisa to make the approach of course. She tells him something like; “You’re meant to be getting experience in all sorts of environments, well I know someone who could get you into lots of different gardens, and behind the scenes at a garden centre. In fact, I know they need a bit of help with their own Victorian garden etc...” You know, that sort of crack.’

‘You’d have to pay him!’

‘Of course, but it would also give Mel an excuse to keep drifting around.’

‘Always the art of the deal, do you ever do anything without the expectation of a favour in return?’

‘Reciprocity is everything.’

‘Okay, open the safe.’ Said Charlie that evening. When I handed her Ken’s modest parcel, she added; ‘We’ll open it at the kitchen table, more appropriate. Can I borrow your best scissors, this is seriously taped-up.’

I watched as Charlie struggled with the tightly packed package, after a few minutes she said; ‘You do it!’ I stuck at one end and eventually managed to slide out the contents. Looking up, her expression seemed to say carry on. There were three items, wrapped around by a fourth, a paper document. It turned out to be a Will, drawn up by a local solicitor about ten years previous. It appointed them as executors and stated that Kenneth Murchison wished to leave all his worldly goods to Mrs Elisabeth Hayward.

‘What do we do?’

‘Give it to Bernard, let him see how far he can get on our behalf. Meanwhile maintain his flat as it is, send any bills to Lawrence.’

Next there was an old plastic pocket photo album. Glancing through, it appeared to be a sort of portable aide-memoir to Ken’s life, starting in childhood and ending with a few snaps taken by Charlie in the garden. About half way through there was a black and white of Ken and another man standing on a flat roof in some tropical location, behind them was an old radio transmitter tower and various antennae. Fascinatingly, Ken appeared to be dressed in a GPO telephone engineer’s uniform from the nineteen sixties. Charlie asked; ‘Where’s that? When was that?’

‘Who knows, there may be writing on the back of some, or all of them. He did say he’d once got as far as Singapore.’

Finally, there were two battered passports, Charlie casually open one; ‘Oh my God, take a dekko at this, he looks a bit like you!’

‘I beg your pardon? Oh, my lord, oh my ears and whiskers.’ I looked at the second. ‘Why the hell didn’t he talk this through?’

‘What?’

But by now I was intrigued. I quickly scanned both documents back to front; ‘Eh, we have, two seemingly genuine, Swiss passports issued in the mid-seventies, but with false names, at least I hope they are!’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Because one features a photo of my father, the other of my mother.’

After a pause she asked; ‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Wait here.’ I ran upstairs and fished around in the bottom of my desk.

Upon my return I switched off the kitchen light and turned on my little device. She asked; ‘What’s that?’

‘Mini UV light.’ I started to scan the passports page by page.

‘What are you looking for?’

‘Invisible writing. Or rather numbers to be more precise.’

‘You think your parents might have been spies?’

‘Oh, no! I’m looking for bank account numbers, hidden assets!’