Just Another Angel (10 page)

‘Drive up?'

I nodded. ‘How do I go about finding somebody here?'

‘Do you know which school?'

‘Social Studies, I think.' It seemed the best bet. There was bound to be one.

‘You won't get any sense out of the School Office now.' He glanced at the Spiderman watch on his left wrist. ‘Not after 12.00 on a Friday. And the porters will only leave a message in the piggyholes if she lives on campus. Did you say you had a car here?'

‘No, I didn't say, and it's a van. I don't suppose you know her, do you? Carol Flaxman.'

He stroked his beard.

‘Don't know her as such. Wasn't she one of the ‘84 Four?'

‘The what?'

‘The four who were suspended for a year in 1984 after the demos during the Miners' Strike. Is it a big van?'

‘Big enough. Would that little demo have involved a slight incident with a police horse?'

‘That's the one. Made all the papers.'

‘And that sounds like the right Carol. I hear she's back now.'

‘If she is, she won't be living on campus. None of them are, they're all persona-non-fucking-grata. Alan might know, of course. He was one of the Four suspended.'

‘Can I get hold of this Alan easily?'

Young Trotsky smiled an impish smile. ‘You wouldn't by chance be going into Colchester, would you?'

‘As soon as I track down Carol, I'm free. You want a lift somewhere?'

‘That'd be great. Alan's upstairs in the bar. He works as a potboy on Fridays, collecting glasses.'

‘Shouldn't that be potperson?' I asked innocently.

‘No, that means something completely different, though in Alan's case you might be right.'

He finished packing up his newsletters, and I followed him upstairs into the bar. A thin, gangling, blond guy was stalking the tables, emptying ashtrays into a battered wastepaper bin and snarling at the customers.

Young Trotsky said: ‘Heh, Alan, there's a guy here wants a word,' and then proceeded to distribute his newsletter around the tables to a less-than-rapturous welcome from the patrons.

‘If you're looking to buy, I've nothing to sell,' said Alan for openers, as if he was at a jumble sale.

‘I'm supplied. I'm told you can help me find an old friend, Carol Flaxman.'

‘Says who?'

‘He did.' I jerked a thumb at the amateur newspaper vendor.

‘We call him Murdoch; he's our would-be press baron.' Alan banged another ashtray into the bin to make it look as if he was working. ‘Yeah, I know where Flaxperson is; I saw her the other day. She tried to score off me and offered to pay by credit card.'

Now that's not uncommon in London these days, but then this was the sticks. I pretended to look shocked. ‘Bet it wasn't hers, either.'

‘Dead right. I see you know Carol.'

‘Not well, but I'm not losing any sleep over that.'

He looked me up and down, not sure what to make of me. That put him on a par with most of the population, but I must have come up to his standards.

‘She's on the front line,' he said, and it wasn't meant to be enigmatic.

‘And where's that these days?'

‘RAF Bentwaters in Suffolk, though I suppose you should call it USAF Bentwaters.'

‘She's joined the Air Force?'

‘More sort of the peace force sitting outside the perimeter wire singing folk songs and eating yoghurt.'

‘Sounds awful.'

‘It is, and if you go there you'll be lucky to escape with your balls.'

‘I'm known as the Great Escaper. Which way to the front line?'

Alan showed me another way out of the bar, so we avoided Young Trotsky, and walked with me to the van. He showed me the location of Bentwaters in the old
AA Book of the Road
I always carried, and then bought the two ounces of Red from me at four times what I'd agreed to pay for it.

No day is wasted.

 

 

 

 

 

Before I rejoined the A12 northwards for Suffolk (okay, so it lacks the ring of ‘North to Alaska!'), I called in at a Sainsbury's to buy some essential items. These comprised a pork pie and some salami to stave off the munchies while I drove, a toothbrush and some toothpaste, and then a bottle each of tequila, lime juice and Asti Spumante for which I had plans.

I had forgotten how beautiful the Suffolk countryside could be, even from a dual carriageway full of juggernauts from Holland and Denmark and Ford Escorts full of reps all with their coats hung neatly in the back and their Barry Manilow tapes belting out.

Bentwaters is, or was, an RAF base that had long been occupied by the American Air Force, probably since the War, proving the theory that East Anglia is the biggest non-floating US aircraft carrier in the world. The main entry road was well sealed off with roadblocks and white-helmeted military cops, behind which a little bit of American Mid-West flourished. Chilled PX Budweiser was drunk in preference to the local Adnams bitter, best mince was called ‘ground beef' and the
East Anglian Daily Times
was bought only to find out what time the Bears were playing the Steelers on Channel 4.

Not that I've anything against Americans; far from it. I feel quite sorry for some of the airbase families, in fact. Since the revival of CND, many of them have thought twice about ever setting foot outside their bases. Well, can you blame them? So the base kids went to base schools and the base moms shopped at base shops and the base officers toured the base cocktail-party circuit. Occasionally some of the other ranks could be seen driving old Chevvies (they brought their own cars with them rather than risk going to local garages) with number plates proclaiming their owner to be from the Potato or Sunshine States or, ironically, from the Land of the Free.

The Front Line peace camp was not difficult to find, mainly because of the hundred or so handwritten signs (most on the back of crisp boxes) saying ‘Front Line' with a badly drawn arrow, which had been threaded
into the wire perimeter fence. I bet the MPs wished they had invested in electrification. More ominously, there were dozens of signs saying ‘Ladies,' which at one time had adorned public loos.

The camp was actually down a farm track to one side of the base. The security at the main gate must have been too tight to let them get established, but tucked away around the perimeter fence they were less of an eyesore and small nuisance. Similarly, I suppose, the peace camp was more or less left in peace round there.

By Greenham standards, which must be the yardstick for these things, the camp was minute. There were about 20 tents and makeshift lean-tos in a semicircle spanning about 40 yards of the fence. Through the wire was an overgrown, obviously unused concrete runway and, far in the distance, the outlying buildings of the base. As far as the military were concerned, this was a good site for the camp, out of sight and far enough away from anything important.

As I eased the Transit over some of the more violent ruts in the track, I noticed that one of the lean-tos was in fact an old, single-decker bus from which the wheels had been removed. It lay tilted to one side, its bodywork rusting into the ground. Its windows had been spray-painted in blues and reds, so that from a distance it looked as if the bus had curtains on the outside. Most the remaining paintwork was covered in CND symbols, as were most of the T-shirts, jeans, smock tops and even a couple of nappies that hung on a clothes line stretched between the bus and the fence. There seemed to be no sign of any transport that actually worked.

About 50 feet from the first tent, I turned the van around and pulled it slightly off the track. I could see in the wing mirror that my arrival had provoked some interest. About half a dozen women and children had appeared and were standing, holding hands, watching me. I felt like the cops arriving in the hippie camp in
Electra Glide in Blue
(the right-winger's
Easy Rider
.)

They were all dressed in about three sets of clothing, each of which they probably slept in, and all had the ingrained-grimy faces of people living without running water. I was glad I hadn't shaved that morning.

The eldest of the group who moved towards me as I jumped out of the van was no more than 30. She had thin, straggly, dirty-blonde rats-tail hair and wore wellingtons, faded pink jeans and a baggy knitted pullover with a row of pink pigs across the bosom. In her left hand she held the hand of a small child dressed in a raincoat at least eight sizes too big. In her right hand she weighed something that made a strange, metallic click-click sound.

It was a sound I hadn't heard since Manchester United played West Ham at Upton Park: ball-bearings – totally vicious and very effective at close range. These girls had learned a lot from their peace camp.

Rats-Tail stopped the group ten feet away, and they fanned out in a semi-circle. I had the nasty feeling they'd done this before. The only other male in sight was about four years old and hadn't been potty-trained.

‘It's too late now,' said Rats-Tail.

‘Surely, it never is.' I turned on the smile. I have good teeth and they've been known to blind at five yards in strong sunlight. No response.

‘It's too late,' said Rats-Tail again, with more hostility than petulance. ‘So you might as well go.'

‘Too late for what?' I took an involuntary step backwards nearer the van.

‘To sign on,' said Rats-Tail, shaking her head in exasperation. ‘Bloody woman!'

The others said nothing. One woman drifted away with a couple of the children as if she'd heard it all before.

‘Bloody Carol!' spat Rats-Tail.

‘Carol Flaxman?'

‘Yes.' Suspicion now, but vitriol won out over loyalty. ‘That selfish cow can't get anything right.'

‘What's she done now?' I asked in a you-don't-have-to-tell-me-anything-about-Carol voice, with an I'm-on-your-side sort of sigh.

‘That dopey mare left about five hours ago to find us some transport so we could all go into Ipswich and sign on. It's too late now, the DHSS will be shut and there's naff-all to eat in the camp except lentils.'

No wonder they were upset, relying on Flaxperson for their next social security Giro when down to their last lentil.

‘I haven't seen her,' I said. ‘But I want to; that's why I came. My name's Dave.'

The ball-bearings stopped clicking.

‘I'm Melanie.' She nodded to the child at her side. ‘This is Antiope.'

‘Hello, Antiope,' I smiled. Poor kid. I thought I had trouble with names, but I wasn't going to ask, because I knew Antiope was the mother of Achilles in Greek mythology. Such are the benefits of a public school education.

‘We can go look for her if you want,' I offered, jerking a thumb at the Transit. ‘Do you know which way she would have gone?'

‘Into the village probably. Are the pubs shut?'

I looked at my watch. Nearly 5.00 pm. ‘Couple of hours ago.'

‘We could check the off-licence, I suppose, though I didn't think she had any money.'

No, but she had some credit cards, I thought. ‘Is it far?'

‘Three miles.' Melanie turned to one of the other women and handed over Antiope. She also slipped her ball-bearings into her jeans pocket. ‘Go and play, luvvie. Tricia, you come with me.'

Tricia turned out to be one of the plumper members of the bodyguard, and she kept hold of her ball-bearings. From the look in her eyes, I wasn't going to make a smart remark about that either.

‘What's this? A posse?'

Melanie looked me squarely in the face. ‘We never travel alone with men.'

‘Fair enough.' I unlocked the passenger door of the Transit for them, but I thought it best not to open it for them or offer them a hand up and in.

Tricia sat between Melanie and me, which made me change gear ever so carefully in case I brushed against her ample thigh, and Melanie shouted instructions around her. We found the village easily enough, though anyone travelling in the area in a Porsche had better not blink.

It had a pub, which looked decent enough, a small village green flanked by a post office, a small supermarket and, incongruously, a hairdresser's called Sylvia's; and while this could be the hairdressing capital of east Suffolk for all I knew, I bet Sylvia didn't get many takers from the peace camp.

There was also a bus shelter on the green, one of the old-style ones that have a bench seat. Lying across it like a stranded whale, if, that is, whales wear pink flying suits, was Carol. And she was singing. And she was drunk.

I parked the van alongside the bus stop, and Carol swayed to her feet, thinking I was a bus. As she stood up, an empty wine bottle clattered off the bench and rolled down the pavement. The Transit being left-hand drive, I was nearest to her, so I did the gentlemanly thing. I locked the door, wound up the window and told Melanie and Tricia to go and get her.

They didn't need much encouragement. Almost instantaneously they were round the nearside and had the odious Carol backed up against the van trying to wave away their prodding, stabbing fingers. There was a lot of ‘You unreliable bitch' and quite a few ‘selfish' and ‘dopey' cracks before Carol managed to fight back a bit and shout, ‘All right, I'll get us some food.' She seemed to be getting quite violent, as I could feel the van sway from her leaning against it.

Much more of this and some nosey neighbour was bound to call local Plod, though from the look of the place, Camberwick Green probably had tougher policing.

I wound down the window and butted in.

‘Hello, Carol, hop in. Door's open.'

‘Who's he?' she asked Melanie, without looking at me.

‘He's brought us some wheels, which is more than you did. Now get in the van.'

‘All right, sister, all right.' With some difficulty, she slid open the side door and bundled herself in and spread herself across one of the triple seats. But only just.

Melanie closed the door and looked at me. ‘Back to camp?'

‘Why not? I've nothing better to do.' I smiled and her eyes smiled back enough to make me think the ice could just possibly melt there under the right circumstances. Tricia noticed it too, for she put herself between us again on the front seat and I heard the giveaway click-clack from her pocket. I can take a hint. There was a gleeful whoop from the back seats. Carol had found my Sainsbury's bag of booze faster than a sniffer dog could have.

‘And which party are we all going to tonight?' she chanted, then burped loudly.

‘Put it down, Carol, it's not yours,' said Melanie in a voice that could have cheered a hockey team on the playing fields of Roedean.

‘Okay, okay. Naughty Carol. Carol's been a bad girl, so Carol has to be put in her place in front of the man.'

I clocked her in the driving mirror. She had stretched out, lying on her back, and was speaking in a little girly voice.

‘Put a sock in it, you old cow, you've caused more than your usual quota of trouble today.'

I may be wrong, but I got the distinct impression that Melanie didn't think too highly of Carol. I decided to keep quiet and drive. Carol began to sing a very rude version of' ‘Pretty Flamingo', which made me think that the stories of graffiti in Ladies loos were all true.

Suddenly she sat up and put her podgy arms around the shoulders of both girls.

‘Alrighty-tighty, Carol will make amends. Carol will do the shopping.'

‘I don't think I want to know about this,' said Melanie, trying in vain to shake off Carol's arm.

‘Now don't be such a straight, Miss Starchy Knickers. Carol will take care of everything. Lend me Melissa and the twins and we can still make the village shop before it shuts.'

Melanie looked over Tricia's bosom at me. ‘Will that be okay?'

‘Sure,' I said, wondering what I was agreeing to.

‘Who's he? Pardon,' Carol burped again.

‘I came to see you,' I said, turning down the farm track to the camp.

‘What does he want?' Carol was still addressing Melanie, ignoring me.

‘He came to see you. He said so. There's no reason to talk as if he was dead.'

‘But Melanie, sweetums –' the little-girl-lost voice again – ‘you're always telling us never to talk to strange men.'

‘Nobody can ever tell you anything, Carol.'

‘But you try, Mother Hen, don't you.'

Carol put her hands on either side of Melanie's face and tried to twist it to receive a deep-throat kiss – her tongue was out and ready. We were nearing the camp, so I aimed for the ruts in the track and put my foot down.

It worked beautifully. Carol was bounced backwards into her seat and then sideways on the floor of the van, banging her head on the side in the process. There was a good deal of howling from her, and a few overripe adjectives, but she was better padded than the seats of the Transit. I hoped my tequila was intact.