She was thinking things through; he could see something going on behind her eyes. He changed the subject. “Why did you not pick Spain for your vacation here? I thought the English preferred the Spanish coast.”
“A certain type of English, I think.” She looked back at the sleeping boy. “Maybe I should have taken Ryan there. He’d have more friends, and we’d have been able to save money. Things are more expensive here.”
“I have money. I can lend you some.”
“No, it wouldn’t be right.”
“It is only money. You must not misunderstand my purpose, Madeline. I mean, it would help you to stay. I will miss you if you go.”
“I didn’t mean-it’s very kind of you to offer, Johann.” She placed her hand on his and smiled. The barrier between them thawed a little further.
“Tonight I take you to El Morocco. You like couscous?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”
“Then I show you what you are missing. Then we put Ryan to bed and I take you for a drink.”
“Only at my hotel.” It was not a refusal. This time he was unable to keep the smile from his face. Perhaps he worried too much about hiding his feelings. Where was the harm? He could feel she was genuinely starting to care about him. He allowed himself to dream about her a little.
It was a dream that did not include the boy. He had always imagined that true love would arrive in the form of a virgin, not a single mother as old as himself. He knew he would have to adjust. Nothing was ever what you expected. That was the beauty and the terror of life.
Smiling to himself, he pushed down on the accelerator, and the Mercedes crested the curve of the
10
Very early on Tuesday morning, John May arrived at his partner’s house in Chalk Farm to find him already outside, trying to close the doors of Alma’s van.
“There’s a mile of string tied around this engine,” he said, peering beneath the bonnet of the old white Bedford. “It looks like it’s holding the distributor cap on.”
“Your obsession with reliability is misguided,” Bryant replied cheerfully, opening the passenger door and checking the musty interior. “My father used to make deliveries all across London in one of these, right through the 1950s. It took them ages to catch him.” This was the sort of annoying remark Bryant was wont to make, in that it obscured as much information as it illuminated. “Do you think it will hold the Garden of Eden?”
“I’m sorry?” May looked up from under the hood. His partner’s conversation always left you feeling you’d missed something.
“The closing night show is taking comparative religious myths as its theme. We need to get a hardboard Garden of Eden in the back, along with several apple trees, a horn of plenty, two plastic gazelles and a partial view of a mountain built for Alma’s church production of
The news that Bryant had reenacted the Creation in a city church came as no surprise to May. At this time of the year, and at a time in life when most men were fantasising about spending their afternoons in a soft armchair, Arthur was more likely to be found organising a conference for ufologists or leading a hunt across the East End in search of the Dagenham Strangler. He seemed able to draw on reserves of strength that powered him through the winter and propelled him towards another spring, much as a vehicle low on petrol might charge a hill in order to coast the next down slope.
“At least you won’t need to pack costumes.” May chuckled.
“Oh, we will. There’s Ganesh and Shiva, Buddha and Mohammad, plus robes, hats and props for their followers. We take a quick canter through all the major myths and legends. We usually manage to incorporate Arthurian and Celtic tales, too, if we’ve room to take the dragon. Sometimes we chuck in a bit of Hans Christian Andersen. It’s all for charity, you see, Children in Poverty. We get the local school to help out, although never the Catholic ones, as they’re not keen on having their Lady of Grace sharing the stage with half a dozen trolls and an elephant-headed god covered in sparklers. Those who take their religion too literally can be very narrow-minded about such things. We try to show that whether you’re pagan or Protestant, you can still learn something from those who draw strength from faith.”
“Are you telling me you’ve discovered faith in your old age?” asked May.
“Good heavens, no.” Bryant readjusted his spectacles and squinted up at his partner with watery wide eyes. “I just like a nice bit of theatre. Doesn’t everyone?”
“When are we leaving?”
“Just as soon as we get these doors shut and I remember where I left my hearing aid batteries. We should be able to reach Plymouth by late afternoon, which will give us time to unload the van and set up for the start of the convention on Wednesday morning. It only lasts two days, climaxing with the awards ceremony and the show on Thursday evening. We can either stay overnight and set back first thing Friday morning, or leave the night before. Can I trust you to be captain of our supply team? I’ve got enough to do just sorting out my pills.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Alma has manufactured a hundredweight of sandwiches for us to take along, and some of her special ”thick“ pea-and-ham soup that might come in handy for fixing radiator leaks. She’ll give you the full list of comestibles.”
“Good heavens, we’re not going to the North Pole, Arthur.”
“Just as well, because it’s not there anymore,” said Bryant gloomily. “Global warming. I read in the paper that it’s melted clean away. I don’t suppose I’ll see a frozen landscape again in my lifetime.”
“You’re wrong about that, Mr. Bryant.” Alma Sorrowbridge had come into the yard behind their home waving a copy of the
“Always the bearer of cheering news, aren’t you?” Bryant sighed, slamming the van doors with finality. “She just wants me to cancel the trip because she doesn’t approve of my multifaith approach to spiritualism. That, and the fact that last year we made a chapter of her evangelists’ gospel choir share their dressing room with a pair of Brahmins and some Hasidic Jews.” Bryant neglected to mention that the choir had brought a family bucket of pork ribs into the dressing room and had almost started a war.
“The doctrine of salvation by faith is the essence of gospel teaching,” said Alma hotly. “It’s Protestant, not Pick ‘n’ Mix. I don’t approve of throwing all these religions together with nonbelievers.”
“There’s no such thing as a nonbeliever,” Bryant stated. “Everyone believes in something, whether it involves alien visitations or simply being nice to each other and repairing a fractured world with good deeds, a cabalistic lesson you might learn the next time you consider torturing me with your culinary experiments. Now be so kind as to go and finish packing my warm clothes.”
It was a little after 8:15 A.M. when they embarked on their journey. John May had agreed to come along partly because his partner was not to be trusted with directions, but also because he had never shown an interest in Bryant’s enthusiasms, and had decided it was about time he did.
“I’ve planned our route,” said Bryant, settling into the passenger seat and pulling the collar of an enormous astrakhan overcoat up around his ears. “We need the A38, possibly via Bittaford and Moorhaven, assuming those villages are still there after two world wars. Perhaps we should stop and buy a more recent map. Do you think I should put a satellite navigation system in my Mini Cooper?”
“You are the last person in the world to be trusted with SatNav,” May retorted. “Remember what happened
