Meanwhile Gardens

  MEANWHILE

  GARDENS

  AN URBAN ADVENTURE

  CHARLES CASELTON

  Copyright © 2010 Charles Caselton

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  5 Weir Road

  Kibworth Beauchamp

  Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK

  Tel: (+44) 116 279 2277

  Email: books@troubador.co.uk

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  ISBN 978 1848764 354

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11pt Sabon by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Printed in the UK by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For My Family

  Contents

  1 HUMDINGER THE III

  2 STRANGE BUT UNDENIABLY HANDSOME

  3 CAUGHT BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL

  4 UNWANTED AND GOING FOR A SONG

  5 VILLAINS, ROGUES AND ROYALTY

  6 REVELATIONS

  7 SPOOKS

  8 AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

  9 JUST WHAT WE’RE LOOKING FOR

  10 LADY PETERS!

  11 RETURN OF THE COWBOY

  12 LIES DAMN LIES

  13 IT’S NOT UNUSUAL

  14 SUCH GUILE

  15 LIES DAMN LIES

  16 UPCHUCK

  17 A SMALL PARCEL

  18 A HOMECOMING

  19 FIREWORKS

  20 HUNGRY HEARTS

  21 ANGIE ON THE CASE

  22 THRICE BURIED

  23 SURPRISING NEWS

  24 STINGS LIKE A BEE

  25 DANCE IS RELIGION, RELIGION IS DANCE

  26 HUM ON THE CASE

  27 UNCOMMON JEWELS

  28 WARNING SIGNS

  29 FISH FRIDAY

  30 SHE CAN’T JUST HAVE VANISHED

  31 WOMEN IN WHITE

  32 CEREMONY

  33 ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

  1

  HUMDINGER THE III

  For the third morning in a row Ollie Michaelson woke up with Bringing in the Sheaves playing in his mind with all the insistence of a church organ.

  As the phone rang he looked at the alarm clock beside his bed and saw 9.45 flashing red on the display. Ollie knew who it was before he picked up the receiver. The first of his concerned morning calls.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” the woman’s voice was firm but friendly with a hint of Jamaican that betrayed her childhood. “Join me for coffee.”

  Ollie yawned and stretched.

  “Hi Auntie Em.”

  “I know you weren’t out last night. And you certainly didn’t have company.”

  “Auntie Em – ”

  “If you’re not going to join me I’ll bring something back for you.”

  “I – ”

  “And we’ll go for a walk. Your young friend will need to. You can’t stay in and mope for ever.”

  Without waiting for a reply she gently put down the phone. Auntie Em knew that if you gave people the option they would invariably take it.

  Sometimes it was best not to give it to them.

  Ollie stayed in bed for another half-hour, enjoying the gentle breathing and warmth of Hum, the ‘young friend’ Auntie Em had alluded to, the young friend who twisted and turned in his sleep next to him.

  Ollie appreciated the regular checks by his neighbours and friends. Afterall it had now been nearly a month since his best and oldest friend had been killed. Perhaps it was about time, Ollie thought, to focus on his own life.

  Or if not on his life, on the life of Hum who slumbered beside him.

  Hum, the last living link to his dead friend. James’ death had thrust parenthood on Ollie and, he realised, he must be responsible and think for two now.

  Hum’s full name was Humdinger the III. He was nearly three years old, adorable and mischievous in equal measure – part German Shepherd, part Briard and all wonderful.

  Ollie remembered the day James had got Hum and proudly brought him round, a two month old pup with attitude. It seemed natural to call him Humdinger – what other name would fit? And as for ‘The lll’ – well, the pup had such a confident air, such an unshaken belief in himself, such unhesitating charm that they both agreed he needed an appropriately American name. All the most confident Americans had ‘The lll’ after their names and so, it was agreed, should Humdinger.

  Ollie drew the sitting room curtains and looked down the little cobbled mews. From his vantage point at the entrance he could see all five houses, each with a brightly painted door. Cornering the bottom of the mews was a C-shaped house where Auntie Em lived with Gemma. They were known to all as Auntie Em and Auntie Gem. Or Gem ‘n Em for short. Greenery spilled over the railings of the narrow first floor balcony that ran the length of their pretty house, the largest in the mews.

  Noticing movement in Ollie’s windows Nicky waved at him from her studio across the way. She put her forefinger to her thumb and bent her wrist as if drinking from a cup.

  Christ, Ollie thought, all my friends want to do is turn me into a caffeinated wreck. He waved back and gestured for the photographer to come over.

  “She said I couldn’t stay in and mope all day. Why the hell not? Why can’t I?”

  “She’s right.”

  “Well of course she’s right Nicks, but….” Ollie’s voice trailed off.

  “Sweetheart, we all miss the hell out of James and no-one’s begrudging you the right to grieve but you’re -? – you’re moping not grieving. You’re using this as an excuse to – to ”

  “To what Nicks?”

  “Just to put off whatever you’re putting off, to put off living.”

  “I do live.”

  “No sweetheart what you do is eat,” Nicky prodded him in the waist. “I can hardly feel your ribs.”

  “It’s been a crap summer,” Ollie blustered, “everyone’s a bit heavier. It helps to keep out the cold.”

  “It hasn’t been that cold, besides there are other things to keep out the chill like the thinnest cashmere, like silken thermal underwear, like – ”

  “Like porridge?” Ollie asked hopefully.

  “Sure – as long as you don’t overload it with cream and sugar.”

  Nicky went to the garbage, lifted the lid and peered in. Inside the heavy stainless steel can were the packaging, wrappers and empty boxes that told of Ollie’s burgeoning girth.

  “Bramley apple pie with cinnamon,” Nicky read out loud. “Rhubarb and blackberry crumble – family size – ”

  “I was going to ask you over – ” Ollie said defensively.

  “- cherry, strawberry and raspberry thick crust – cherry, strawberry AND raspberry?” Nicky looked at Ollie and raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s good, you should try it Nicks.”

  “An extra large tub of clotted cream – ”

  “It’s half-fat!”

  Nicky smiled and put back the lid with a clang.

  “Elvis, Oprah and the Notorious B.I.G. are worthy role mode
ls for their talent but perhaps not for their dietary habits. C’mon Ollie, you’re growing tits for Chrissake,” Nicky poked him again, once in each breast. “Male boobs are not a hot look.”

  To his shame Ollie could feel the flesh jiggle.

  “Yeah, well, it’s comfort food,” he grumbled.

  “I can see that sweetheart,” Nicky put her arm around Ollie’s shoulder, “but you can get comfort from other things, like – ”

  “I’m not dating anyone, I’m not answering any ads, and it’s too cold for Hampstead,” Ollie said hurriedly.

  “ – like, exercise.”

  Ollie looked at his friend with suspicion.

  “You’ve been talking to Auntie Em haven’t you?”

  Before Nicky could answer Hum barked a surprisingly loud bark and raced down the stairs to the front door. Ollie sighed and made to follow, but Nicky beat him to it.

  “I’ll get it.”

  She bounded down the stairs, returning seconds later with a small sellotaped carton which she put on the kitchen table. Inside were four custard tarts from the neighbouring Portuguese café.

  “These were on the doorstep – ”

  “They must be from Auntie Em.”

  “ – along with a note.”

  Ollie grabbed for the slip of paper but Nicky pulled it out of reach.

  “Be ready in an hour,” she began to read. “No is not an option.” Nicky flashed the note at him to show there was nothing else.

  “Fresh air and custard tarts.”

  “Auntie Em’s answer to everything.”

  Ollie looked out of the kitchen window at the modernist 60’s tower block that loomed over the mews.

  On one side of the enormous structure, separated from the main building by parallel walkways two storeys apart, was the lift shaft and stairwell looking for all the world like the handle to a transistor radio.

  The main building with its white-framed windows, its balconies and criss-crossing concrete lines appeared as an extraordinary grid against the sky.

  These two features combined to make the block of flats look like some mammoth ghettoblaster on its side.

  “I often think that someday a giant in seven league boots will come along, pick up Trellick Tower, sling it on his shoulder and rock on his way.”

  Nicky paused to let this thought filter through her mind.

  “Like the guy in the KEEP ON TRUCKIN’ poster?” she asked.

  Ollie clinked his mug to Nicky’s.

  “You got it.”

  Everything was so different in London.

  For a start there were so many people. So many people! Where had they come from? And where were they going with their briefcases, their brollies and frowns?

  Rion had snuck a look at an A to Z in WH Smiths at King’s Cross to confirm where she was.

  As if she needed to.

  Everyday for the past month, ever since she had finally decided to leave home, Rion had gone to Bridlington library and asked for the London A to Z. She knew exactly where she was. And exactly where she was going.

  What she was going to do when she got there was another matter.

  It looked easy on the map. Just turn right out of King’s Cross station and keep going.

  Straight. Straight. Straight.

  It was 10:40 when Rion passed Madame Tussauds. People, five abreast, queued in a thick line that stretched the full length of the building.

  Tanya Bishop had said there was a lifesize waxwork of Tom Cruise inside! Rion hoped it was a larger than lifesize model for the original was a notoriously abridged version, at least to Tanya Bishop who preferred her movie stars on the large size. Whilst Rion admired his compact quality she feared she would tower over Tom Cruise should she ever meet him.

  Standing five foot eleven in bare feet made this an inevitability.

  Judging from their accents, as much as from the coaches setting them down, Rion noticed that the majority of the people in line for the waxworks were French. She took this as a sign, a good sign, for the man she was going to see today, the man she hoped would have the answers, was French.

  “Rion,” she said her new name to herself – it was Rion now. She had dropped the preceding ‘Ma’ on the train from Bridlington.

  Marion had always felt like the wrong name for her. It was somehow displaced, she thought, a name from a bygone age, an age that just didn’t exist anymore – and to Marion’s mind bygones should be bygones.

  From now on there would be no ‘Ma’ for Rion.

  And thankfully no Pa.

  Outside the waxworks the smell of frying onions reminded her of how little she had eaten since leaving Bridlington 5 hours ago. She had had a kit-kat for breakfast. Not the usual four finger kind, but a promotional two finger kind. In dark chocolate. Now she was hungry.

  Counting her money Rion found she had £3.27.

  Exactly.

  Three £1 coins, a twenty pence piece and seven pennies.

  Before she approached the burger van Rion caught sight of her reflection in the display windows of the wax museum. She pulled down her sleeves to cover the bruises and adjusted the collar of her thin fleece.

  The reasons for her flight would remain concealed.

  “Yes, darlin’.”

  The words addressed to her were more a statement than a question.

  “How much for a cheeseburger?” Rion’s Yorkshire accent seemed somehow out of place on the busy Marylebone Road.

  The youth, his hair greased into a kisscurl over his forehead, insolently tapped the board on the side of the fold-down counter.

  “£5.50. Fries are £2.20.”

  He called chips – fries, and £5.50 for a cheeseburger! Although inwardly staggered at the price Rion realised, with some pleasure, that this was another reminder she was no longer in Bridlington.

  Rion plucked up courage and smiled. “Could I have half a portion of ch – ” she corrected herself, “fries – and some onions for £1.25?”

  “This isn’t a market darlin’,” he sneered. “If you want a bargain go to Portabella.”

  Rion walked away, the youth’s laughter following her.

  “Eee oop Yorkshire, you’re champion lass! Aye,” he mimicked to her back. The youth shook his head violently and tutted in disbelief.

  The kisscurl remained firmly in place.

  Rion was down to £1 by the time she got to the roundabout at the start of Bishop’s Bridge Road. She knew London would be expensive but even so £2.26 seemed steep for an apple, an orange and a small Mars bar. She should have had a pound and a penny but one of the small dirty coins had turned out to be a Canadian cent.

  Another sign. Another positive sign. For Canada was the scene of her hero’s greatest triumph.

  Looking up Rion saw an enormous billboard for a removals company covering the top half of the building above her. The huge poster showed a tightrope walker tiptoeing across the Earth with the slogan: TAKE A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION AND MOVE WITH US.

  ‘Take a step in the right direction – ’ Rion mimicked the tightrope walker above and for an instant forgot her troubles. It would all be worth it.

  “Please God,” Rion whispered, “give me one more sign just….”

  And then she saw it. The fourth and final sign.

  In the window of the greasy café below the billboard were the words, ‘Omelettes our speciality.’ Now there could be no doubt! Her hero’s favourite meal spelt out in bold letters right before her eyes. Right before her eyes!

  “Thank you Lord,” she murmured.

  First the French tourists, then the Canadian cent, followed by Take a step in the right direction... and finally Omelettes.

  Ignoring her blisters Rion hurried on. The man she was going to see would have the answers. Now she was sure.

  The young girl raced through the passages of the underpass, expecting to be mugged at any second. She had seen CrimeWatch and knew what to expect from grimy London subways but to her relief there was no one around.

&n
bsp; Or would she be safer if there were people around?

  Was it safer in a crowd?

  But then again didn’t people vanish in crowds? There was that story the other week of a girl, not much older than herself, who was kidnapped in broad daylight and later found – well, she flinched, it just didn’t bear thinking about.

  Finding herself in the open basin of Little Venice Rion was relieved to see a man on a bench overlooking an island. Posh three storey houses lined the far side of the inland waterway, a series of lowlying non-descript council blocks edged the near. Remembering her last encounter with a Londoner, the greased youth from the hamburger van, Rion took a deep breath and approached.

  “Excuse me,” her voice-sounded nasal, her attempt at flattening her accent not entirely successful.

  “Excuse me,” she tried again, this time with more success, sounding, she thought, like someone on the telly. “Could you tell me where – ”

  As the man turned round Rion knew she had made a mistake – his eyes were red and weepy, snot encrusted his nostrils, his breath just a mass of fumes. The man picked up a bottle and waved it at her.

  “Do I look as if I know where I’m going?” he slurred. “Go on gerrrout of it. Piss off girlie.”

  Rion’s asthma and blisters slowed her down on the other side of the canal where she stopped to catch her breath beside a line of longboats. The names of the brightly coloured barges initially soothed her and her inflamed alveoli.

  ‘ Morrisco ’; She smiled, no doubt a Latin step danced by sweet old couples.

  ‘ Longfelloe ’; Probably refers to the size of the boat, although the spelling struck her as slightly odd.

  ‘ Home Sweet Home’ ; Home Sweet Home? Was there such a place?

  Rion shuddered and carried on her way.

  Another twenty minutes of limping found her at the back of an enormous bunker of flats, thirty storeys at least she thought, higher than anything she had seen in her life. The towering concrete block was set in its own park complete with meandering two-tiered pond.

  As she approached a man bounded up the steps that joined the park to the canal ten yards in front of her. He was in his mid-twenties she guessed, and quite handsome in his way, although he could lose a few pounds, maybe even a stone. A woman, perhaps his mother, followed.