There was even a reunion—if not a rapprochement—with Romilly (whose family owned half of Cheshire) from whose life he had been obliged to extricate himself in such haste. Things had been “sticky” with her in any case before The Deluge, as he styled it; nonetheless a cover story had been concocted for her benefit by the financial institution’s “reputation managers,” which he now retailed to her in a restaurant in Da Nang. It was, frankly, unbelievable—referencing, as it did, MI6 and classified work, “vital to the security of the state.” But good egg that she was (a former head girl and rowing Blue) she bought the whole crock of Shibbles, accepted an apparently heartfelt apology and just to show there were no hard feelings, extended him credit in Vietnamese dong to the equivalent at the time of five hundred pounds sterling.
Perhaps tiring of the itinerant lifestyle, perhaps, too, craving some kind of moral compass in which the needle was not a frenzied blur—wishing, dare one say it, to get back in touch with his better side—the next step was a surprise.
He flew to Japan and began training for the priesthood.
Buddhism, with its emphasis on chastity and the renouncing of material possessions, was not at first sight a natural fit for the man who was now Bavin Meurig Shibbles. But after the empty hedonism of the Southeast Asia years, body and soul must have craved simplicity, purity and various other words ending in -ity.
The ten months he stuck at it are not easy to reconstruct because his phones and laptop were donated to an animal charity in Tokushima Prefecture. But it’s safe to say they would have featured meditation, prayer and the growing realization that there is no path to happiness; happiness is the path. (My own sentiments exactly.)
He next appears on the radar purchasing a flight from Tokyo to Ynys Môn (it required several changes) in the company of one Eirwen Hughes Shibbles and an infant aged two months, Dafydd Charles Shibbles.
Several years are passed playing Unhappy Families on the isle of Anglesey—Nicky slash Shibbles is mentioned hilariously on a Census record from the time as an “agricultural worker”—before the wanderlust once again takes hold.
I shall skip over the details of his travels through the Indian subcontinent; we were all amazed by his energy and frankly (rooted to the spot as we are in London Northwest Six) not a little envious of the sights he must have seen.
There was a year in Capri, as a private language tutor to the teenage daughter of an industrialist: You can probably imagine how that one turned out!
There were a number of seasons as a tour guide in Mediterranean France.
The five months as a croupier on a cruise ship proved lucrative but the fling with the Chief Engineer’s girlfriend on the waiting staff was a disaster (the restorative dentistry bills erased all his savings).
Those of us who painstakingly reconstructed Nicky’s progress during this period were impressed but ultimately exhausted by the sheer amount of juggling and reinvention that was his existence. Even the toothbrush, who finds it impossible to settle to any fixed view, was longing for him to “just stop all the gallivanting and become something.”
The television put it more plainly. “He needs to shit or get off the khazi.”
Perhaps he was arriving at the same conclusion himself. Fourteen months ago he resurfaced in a remote area of mid-Wales, apparently earning his living as a gardener, and there he has remained to the present day.
So we have answered the mystery of whatever happened to Daisy’s great love.
The question now is, what (if anything) to do with this information?
I summon the “war cabinet,” as I sometimes (satirically) refer to my colleagues.
“We have a problem to address in regard to our template.”
“What’s he on about?” says the TV.
“I need to remind you of the criteria we used when considering possible mates for Daisy.”
Once again I spell them out on my virtual fridge door in virtual magnetic letters.
1. Posh
2. Rich
3. Handsome
4. Clever
5. Big hair
6. Hinterland (classical music; cosmology, etc.)
7. Dog or dogs in childhood
8. One or more parents in legal profession slash chipped plates
9. “Golden” quality
10. Missing (absent quality)
What I’m hoping the team will grasp for themselves is the issue in regard to the general “quality threshold” we insisted on for candidates who ticked at least four of the boxes above.
Nicky himself would not pass it.
“We have established beyond doubt that our man is a total no-goodnik,” I remind them. “An elegant waster, a chancer, a drifter prepared to hitch his wagon to whatever or whoever best serves his purpose, in so far as he has one. We were mis-sold a narrative, that of the Golden Youth. In fact, he was as flawed as any of the rest of them; she just never got the chance to find out.”
“And yet,” says the toothbrush. “I sense there’s an and yet coming. Is there?”
“The idea I’m playing with,” I continue, “is whether it could prove catalytic for Daisy to meet her old love again. To see for herself what has become of him. To satisfy her curiosity, to achieve closure, but more importantly, to allow her to move forward.”
“Fuck me, who are you, Oprah Winfrey?”
(Do I need to say who passed that particular comment?)
“If she were to see for herself the ravages of time, both physical and moral—the thinning hair, the sun damage, the ceramic teeth…”
“He should never have had them repaired in Tangier. That was a false economy,” says you can probably guess.
“Once she understands her golden boy, whilst not yet come to dust, is decidedly
