Golden Hour (28 page)

The gate opens and the queue starts to move.

“Here we go!” cries Joan.

Henry meets Laura's eyes and sees there the same puzzlement that he's feeling. Somehow none of this is what he expected.

There are two lines of guests, crossing the red tarmac of the palace forecourt to its entrance. Everything is very well ordered. The guests proceed at a patient shuffle.

Inside the palace a glimpse of grand rooms all in red and gold with portraits on the walls, then a room with a semicircular far wall, then through glazed doors out onto a semicircular terrace.

Beneath the dull skies stretches an immense lawn, on which many brightly colored people are strolling. At the far end, the gleam of a lake fringed by trees. All down the left-hand side of the lawn runs a long open-fronted tea tent, before which are arranged hundreds of tables, each with four chairs. On the far right-hand side of the lawn stand two smaller tents, one of which is topped with a crown. There are two bandstands, a near one on the right of the terrace and a far one by the lake. Guardsmen in red jackets are playing the theme from
Gladiator
.

The guests flow in a steady stream through the palace and onto the lawn, past smiling young women in bubblegum-pink polo shirts with labels that say: Can I be of assistance? Laura and Henry reach the lawn, walking in a little cluster with their
friends from the queue outside, and all six of them gaze at the scene with curiosity and delight.

“Oh, isn't he just something!” exclaims Joan, pointing at a tall elderly clergyman in a long frock coat and a high top hat.

There seem to be large numbers of soldiers in dress uniform, and bishops in scarlet soutanes. An African dignitary passes by, in full dress uniform complete with baldric and medals, followed by four wives wearing brightly patterned African robes. The material clings tight round their bottoms and their hems trail on the grass.

Laura notes to Henry that every woman in sight wears either a hat or a fascinator.

“See? You didn't believe me.”

She says to Sukhjit, who is wearing neither, “You're the only one with any courage.”

“Oh, I go my own way,” says Sukhjit. “No one tells me how to dress.”

“Guess how much my outfit cost?” says Joan. “One hundred pounds! Cheap as chips! Hat thrown in for nothing!”

They stand looking back toward the palace. The stream of guests has never ceased. Everyone carries an umbrella, but the afternoon is warm and there are patches of blue in the sky. The palace from this side is pretty, more varied than the severe face it presents to the front. Scaffolding covers up the South Wing.

“You must bag a table, Jaspal,” Sukhjit tells her husband. “We'll get tea.”

Though the number of guests is growing larger all the time, the great lawn doesn't feel crowded. The sound of the Guards band mingles with the buzz of voices and the far-off hum of London's traffic. The guests are mostly middle-aged or elderly, but beyond that there seems to be no common denominator. Different accents, different skin colors, different styles of dress,
but all with the same look on their faces, which is a kind of shy excitement.

They stand in line for tea. Henry, looking around at his fellow guests, tries to identify what it is that makes this immense gathering so unexpectedly pleasing. Then it strikes him that this is a party without cliques. The guests are forming small clusters, as they themselves have done, but the single factor that unites everyone here is that they are all in an unknown place among unknown people. Most assemblies are dominated by an elite core of insiders. Here all are outsiders. The soldiers flaunt their rank, the bishops their grandeur, but it's all to no avail. Lacking the usual retinues, every guest is reduced or elevated to the same level. This party hosted by a queen, staged in a palace, is an exercise in egalitarianism.

Suddenly the tea is before them. The queues are shorter than expected, because there are so many of them: perhaps as many as fifty tea stations, stretching away on either side. Henry is handed a rectangular dish that serves as both plate and saucer, and asked to choose tea or lemonade. He selects his own cakes.

“You can have as much as you want,” says Joan, who sent for the DVD on the palace garden parties and so knows the form. “So long as you can keep it on the plate.”

Henry chooses a raspberry tartlet, a coffee eclair, an egg finger sandwich, a salmon-and-cream-cheese roll, a slice of fruitcake, and a square of chocolate mousse that has the royal crest on top. He feels like a child again.

“Oh, Henry,” says Laura. “Honestly!”

As they eat their tea a column of Yeomen of the Guard appear, marching with an odd lurching gait between the guests like extras in a comic operetta. Henry is on the point of making a joke about them when Joan says, “They're holding ground. That's what it's called.”

“It's all a sort of a show, isn't it?” says Henry. “We're the audience.”

He doesn't say it with a sneer. On the contrary, he feels a kind of gratitude.

“Joan and Peter saw a show,” says Laura. “What did you see?”

“
Jersey Boys
,” says Joan. “We left at the interval.”

“That was sixty quid down the plughole,” says Peter.

Now men in top hats and morning suits are passing among the guests, issuing polite instructions.

“The Gentlemen at Arms,” says Joan.

They wear ties in dark blue and maroon stripes, with red carnations in their buttonholes, and they carry long rolled umbrellas.

“Wonderful!” It's all beyond parody. “Why isn't this ridiculous?” Henry whispers to Laura.

“Of course it's ridiculous,” says Laura. “But it's wonderful too.”

The Gentlemen at Arms are nudging the crowds to form two broad lanes across the lawns. Henry and Laura find themselves in the left-hand lane until Joan rescues them.

“That's the Duke of Edinburgh's lane. Come over here. You want to be in the Queen's lane.”

The Gentlemen at Arms loiter up and down the open lanes, chatting to the guests, twirling their rolled umbrellas, smiling. Watching them, Henry is charmed. They don't take themselves seriously at all. One of them catches his eye and winks.

The guest beside him points to the Gentlemen at Arms and says, “See the ones in the big shoes? They're policemen.” On the facing side of the lane two lads in RAF uniform are being quizzed by one of the Gentlemen. The national anthem starts to play. The soldiers in the crowd stand to the salute. Far away, on the curving terrace, there appears a tiny figure in blue.

“That's her,” says Joan.

The trick to a job like this is you don't hang around. No lurking in lay-bys for dog walkers to find. There's no hiding places any more, everywhere is somebody's drive or parking place. So you act like you've got nothing to hide and no one asks any questions and you get in and get out fast.

Dean drives his old van out of Lewes down the A27 and off at the roundabout into Edenfield. Then it's first right at the shop and right again down the lane and there it is, just like Terry said, with a short gravel drive and a big chimney stack on one side.

Your heart rate's up, that's natural. Got to stay sharp. You're allowed to drive up to someone's front door, no law against that. Everything you're doing this afternoon is legal except for maybe five fast minutes, but those five minutes are where you show what you've got. Mad Mac, the joker of Camp Hill Borstal, said we should get a medal every time. All Mac ever did was sheds but he was a laugh. It takes a hero, Mac said.

Dean pulls the van up by the front door like he owns the place. According to Terry the owners are out for the day but you never know till you check. Gloves on, a giveaway on a summer's day, but who's looking? From now on no mistakes, touch nothing you're not taking with you, leave nothing behind.

Mission on.

Dean jumps briskly out of the van, strides to the front door, rings the bell. Cover story ready, on the tip of his tongue, “Delivery for Manor House,” which is not the name of the property, so if someone answers the door they give you directions, you thank them and you get the hell out. But no one answers. You ring again. Don't rush it. Big house, maybe someone in the garden at the back, shuffling toward the summons of the bell.

He rings a third time, hopping from foot to foot. Like a fucking footballer waiting for the whistle.

Okay. Let's go. Do this right, Deanie. You're doing this for Sheena. Don't fuck it up, kid. Get the motor out of sight in case the owners come back while you're inside.

He reverses the van out of the drive, down the lane, pulls up by a farm gate. Grabs his tool bag, jumps out of the van, jogs back to the house. No pissing about, straight round the side through a gate into the garden behind. Senses super alert, eyes wide, ears pricked, round onto a broad brick terrace with garden table and chairs, gas barbecue, giant furled umbrella. Nice place, big garden, worth a million and counting, people like this can afford to share a little of what they've got. We're all human beings, all got just the one mouth for eating. What makes them deserve so much when you've got so little? Just luck is all. Some get lucky, others get fucked. So what you going to do about it, Deanie boy? Nobody going to stand up for you if you don't stand up for yourself.

I'm doing this for you, Sheena.

French windows at the back like Terry said. Could be bolts top and bottom as well as the door latch. He puts down his bag. He's got a heavy chisel, a felt-wrapped mallet, a can of spray foam to mute the alarm bell, a can of spray smoke to check for infrared beams. He's ready for the alarm to go off, but a place like this no one comes running, takes the police half an hour
to show up, assuming they even bother. So you let the alarm ring, you get on with the job, and that takes a fucking freezer-load of cool, pal. Easy money this is not.

He tries the French windows and what do you know? Unlocked. Come on in, Dean. Make yourself at home. So what does that tell you? Someone's in. But no one answered the doorbell. So someone just popped out for five minutes, didn't bother to lock up and set the alarm. Someone will be back soon.

Dean feels his first real tremor of fear. Getting caught is not an option. If they put me back inside I'll top myself, I swear to God. Don't give up on me, Sheena. Just this one job and I'll buy you a ring you'll be proud to wear.

For Sheena. For our future together. To show I'm not a loser all the way. It takes a fucking hero, and the rest. Ask Brad. He's been there.

Dean enters the house. From this moment on he is without doubt breaking the law. But what is this law? It's the iron rule that says the unlucky go on losing and the winners take it all. How are you supposed to fight against that? How about some law that says it's the losers who need a hand? The guy who owns this place doesn't need a hand. He's got no worries. He's the big man, the police don't stop and search his car every time he drives by just in case he's not insured. He's so fucking insured you could burn his house down and he'd get it all back.

What you do now is float like a butterfly. That's Mad Mac again. When you go in you touch nothing, your feet don't touch the ground, you're a fairy, you're Tinkerbell. Move fast, touch nothing, make no mess.

Dean heads for the hall, listening for any sounds, hearing only the pad of his own trainers on the carpet. Up the stairs to the first-floor landing, bag unopened in his hand.

Booma-booma-booma
. Just his own heart beating time. Nothing
else stirring. So many doors! How many bedrooms does this house have?

Dean is looking for the master bedroom. No messing about with TVs and music systems, you can't unload that crap any more, not even in a car-boot sale. People only want new stuff these days. What you want is the easy-to-carry high-value goods, which means jewelry, which means the dressing table in the master bedroom.

Two doors later and he's in. There's a big bed and wide window looking over the garden and the river valley. A wall of wardrobes, a door to a bathroom, a dressing table.

He puts down his bag, draws a slow breath to steady himself. This is where you have to be cool. No frantic rummaging. Take your time, which is all of thirty seconds. Use your brain.

So I can't read and I'm thick as fuck but hey Brad, watch this. I guarantee you I'll go straight to the jackpot.

He stands gazing at the dressing table. A line of bottles and little pots, a box of tissues, a magnifying mirror on a stand, hairbrushes, hairdryer, a stone saucer full of random items, nail scissors, buttons, hairpins. And a pretty octagonal wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

Hello Dean, says the pretty box. Open me.

He lifts the lid. Inside it's lined with pale blue silk and divided into little compartments, and in most of the compartments there are earrings. But in one compartment there's something else. Something that says to Dean that his luck is turning.

He picks it up to look at it more closely. It's a gold ring with a ruby. The ruby is smooth, a little dull on the surface, but there's a deep light beneath. The gold setting is a nest of little leaves. It's old, anyone can see that, and it's beautiful. Not flashy, just quietly confidently classy. Dean knows as soon he sees it that this is a ring Sheena will love.

The crunch on gravel of a car pulling up outside. Fuck. He puts the ring in one pocket, closes the inlaid box, picks up his bag.

The front door opens. Footsteps, voices. His mouth goes dry. He hears a pounding in his head.

Don't move. Just don't move.

They're coming up the stairs, two of them. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. The bedroom door opens and closes. He can hear the sound of their voices, the words muffled by the closed door. His face is cold as ice but he's sweating, the sweat trickling over his lips.

Music starts playing.

You can do this, brother, and you know why? Because it's a job. That's all it is. So there's a hundred guns and they're all pointing your way, the worst that can happen is you die. Live or die, it's all one. You do what you do.