Sons and Daughters (16 page)

‘How’d you get on?’ asked Sammy.

‘Painfully,’ said Jimmy.

‘With the girl?’ said Susie.

‘With the golf,’ said Jimmy.

‘No good?’ said Boots.

‘Ask me another,’ said Jimmy.

‘How about the girl?’ asked Polly.

‘Hot stuff,’ said Jimmy.

‘Crikey,’ said Paula, ‘really hot stuff?’

‘At golf,’ said Jimmy.

‘When do the two of you meet again?’ asked Polly.

‘Never on a golf course, I hope,’ said Jimmy.

‘What was he like?’ asked Fiona.

‘Hopeless,’ said Jenny, helping herself to a sandwich and a tomato. The beach was near to golden under the bright sun, perfect for holidaymakers acquiring a tan.

‘No sex appeal?’ said Chloe.

‘Who’s talking about sex appeal?’ said Jenny.

‘There’s plenty here,’ said Barry of the bandaged ankle. ‘Including mine.’

‘Yours is sprained,’ said Jenny, ‘and who let sand get into the sandwiches?’

‘She’s complaining,’ said Chloe. ‘Is that a sign she’s going to add her goofy golfer to our group?’

‘She can’t,’ said Barry, ‘we’re eight, we’re four and four. He’ll be odd.’

‘Oh, I don’t think he’s odd,’ said Fiona, ‘he looked a sweetie to me.’

‘Shut up!’ bawled the four fellers.

‘Don’t get an anxiety complex,’ said Jenny, ‘my round of golf with him wasn’t meaningful.’

‘Famous last words,’ whispered Chloe to Matilda.

The sun beamed out of the blue sky. Children fished about with nets in little pools, adults strolled at the edge of the sea, parents relaxed and let cares float away, and the laughter and ribaldry marking the spot where Jenny and her friends were grouped was a clear indication of the joys of being young.

Jimmy enjoyed a rousing swim with Paula and Phoebe the following day. Phoebe was as smooth and agile as a fish in the water, as adept at the butterfly as at the crawl, and Jimmy made a mental note to contact Surrey’s swimming chiefs and let them know he had a young sister who could possibly be trained to become a county champ.

He let the girls go their way while he floated on his back. The sea was calm, the tide out, the sand of Daymer Bay a huge shining expanse in the light of another sunny day. He mused on his golf round with the stunning Jenny Osborne. Calamitous. Pity about that. He’d performed like a useless Charlie right in front of her eyes. Not just for a few minutes, but for three hours. Once or twice, when he’d nearly fallen flat on his face, she’d shrieked with laughter. Mostly, however, she’d either groaned or sighed, then delivered a verbal blow. True, she’d helped all she could with advice and instruction, but the perishing ball simply didn’t like what he’d tried to do to it. Talk about disastrous.

He sat up then as he spotted two bathing
beauties approaching the sea. One was in sleek blue, the other in white. Sun-kissed legs and thighs shone. He swam into shallow water, stood up and waded towards them.

‘Hello,’ said Aunt Polly, the one in white.

‘We couldn’t resist,’ said Susie, the one in blue.

‘Well, I’ll go to the market with a camel,’ said Jimmy. ‘How’d you do it, considering one of you’s my mum, and the other’s my aunt?’

‘Is that a compliment or what?’ asked Susie.

‘Don’t explain or what,’ said Polly.

Jimmy laughed. He wouldn’t have been what he was if he hadn’t felt proud of them. Their swimsuits were first-class in style and quality, and they both looked as if they’d been poured into them.

‘Listen, my beauties,’ he said, ‘are you going in?’

‘This beauty is,’ said Polly, dark sienna hair styled in curling fashion around her head.

‘So is this one,’ said Susie, fair hair fairer in the sun. A group of young people on the far side of the beach went running and splashing into the sea, whooping with the bliss of being alive. Somehow, and for a brief moment of sadness, she thought of the millions of men, women and children taken from life in the gas chambers of the German concentration camps. Life in all its variations was a gift from God. How terrible for children to be brutally robbed of it. Boots had known a concentration camp, and had seen its remnants, the dead, the dying and the walking skeletons. Polly had said that for all his tolerance, he would always consider Himmler and the SS as totally unforgivable.

‘Where are your bathing caps?’ asked Jimmy.

‘Jimmy old scout, I look hideous in a bathing cap,’ said Polly.

‘I look as if I’m bald,’ said Susie, ‘so we’ll shampoo the salt out of our hair tonight.’

‘In you go, then,’ said Jimmy. ‘The girls are out there somewhere, and Phoebe’s after swimming the Channel. Her swimming’s famous, but her geography’s wonky. Who’s looking after the belongings?’

‘Your Uncle Boots and the twins,’ said Susie. ‘He and the twins have had their swim.’

‘He’s now helping them build the biggest sandcastle ever, with a moat,’ said Polly. ‘He’s reliving his childhood. Happily, the old darling.’

‘And Sammy’s gone up to the village to buy some bottles of lemonade for our young ones, the sweetie,’ said Susie. ‘Come on, Polly, let’s brave the sea. Last one in is a wimp.’

Jimmy watched them wade out until the water was deep enough for them to dive in. His Aunt Polly was quickly away, using a long-armed easy crawl. His mum followed with a sedate breast stroke. There were cries of encouragement from Paula and Phoebe, way out with other young swimmers. The picture was a sun-splashed, sea-splashed sparkle so colourful that Jimmy decided to go in again. Wading out, he saw a girl approaching him on his left.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Hi,’ said Jimmy, swimming trunks plastering his hips, little beads of water dappling his fine, firm chest.

‘I know you,’ she said, ‘you played golf with Jenny yesterday.’

‘In all honesty, I’ve got to correct that,’ said Jimmy. ‘I went round with her and fell about all over the course. Not my game, I suppose.’

‘Still, you’re smiling about it,’ said the girl.

‘It’s hiding my mortification,’ said Jimmy.

‘I’m Fiona. Who were those two dazzling women you were talking to?’

‘My aunt and my mother.’

‘My mother doesn’t look like that in a swimsuit,’ said Fiona, glowingly brunette. ‘Still, she has lots of other assets – or do I mean virtues?’

‘All mums have some virtues,’ said Jimmy.

Up came a young feller, gleaming wet from the sea.

‘Excuse me,’ he said to Jimmy, ‘but Fiona’s got an appointment.’

‘With her mum?’ said Jimmy.

‘With me. So long.’ He took Fiona away, but not before she cast Jimmy a smile and a wink.

Jimmy waded on towards a bevy of bathers, girls, fellers and adults. The sea at Daymer Bay was devoid of the rollers that crashed in at Polzeath and Newquay, and the bathing was safe. Away to his left, he saw Jenny and her group turning the sea to foam around their splashing, moving bodies. He plunged in and struck out. Up popped Paula and Phoebe in front of him, streaming water.

‘Wow, isn’t it great?’ spouted Paula.

‘Fantastic,’ said Jimmy.

‘We saw you talking to a girl,’ said Phoebe.

‘She’s got a feller,’ said Jimmy, treading water.

‘Hard luck,’ said Paula.

Apart from the fact that Jimmy kept reliving his disastrous round of golf, the day was perfect.

So were following days, the weather set fair.

Sparky Dewdrop, a skinny bloke with a perpetual sniff, had a talent for dropping insurance companies into a heap of liabilities. He used arson that couldn’t be proved as such. It was a happy little earner that kept him in unlimited groceries and the convenience of a battered old car. He had no trouble in acquiring petrol coupons. Or unlimited groceries.

Having been talked to by Large Lump, which wasn’t the wittiest discourse to which his ears had ever been treated, he called on the Fat Man, knowing that if he didn’t, something heavy would fall on him or his car or both.

The Fat Man acquainted him with what was required, grievous injury in some form or another to Sammy Adams’s business. The factory at Belsize Park, for instance, or the shop and offices at Camberwell Green.

‘Don’t like the sound of Camberwell Green, y’know,’ said Sparky, sniffing. ‘It ain’t quiet enough at night. It’s a regular coppers’ beat.’

‘I had that problem with his store in the Walworth Road,’ said Fat Man.

‘Walworth Road?’ Sparky shook his head and sniffed again. ‘I tell yer, Mister Ford, that’s what some of us call no-man’s-land.’

‘Don’t I know it?’ said Fat Man.

‘Belsize Park’s better, it’s full up with respectable people that don’t give the cops trouble,’ said Sparky, sniffing yet again.

‘Do me a favour,’ said Fat Man, ‘blow your bloody nose.’

‘Eh?’ said Sparky.

‘Blow it.’

‘It ain’t bothering me,’ said Sparky.

‘It’s bothering me,’ said Fat Man, who was fastidious himself about personal habits.

‘Oh, right you are,’ said Sparky, and searched for a handkerchief. He was lucky enough to find one up his sleeve. It wasn’t exactly pristine, but it did the job. He blew hard, snorting.

‘What’s your suggestion for Belsize Park?’ wheezed Fat Man.

‘Well, you know me speciality,’ said Sparky, ‘and I ain’t ever let a client down.’

‘If there’s going to be a first time, don’t make it me,’ said Fat Man, ‘or you’ll disappear into a large lump of wet concrete.’

‘You’re a hard man, Mister Ford,’ said Sparky. He sniffed. The Fat Man rumbled with irritation.

‘I ain’t ungenerous for a successful job, you know that,’ he said.

‘I’m appreciative, appreciative,’ said Sparky. ‘When d’you want the job done?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Eh?’

‘That means immediately,’ said Fat Man.

‘Immediate being tomorrow night?’ said Sparky.

‘That’ll do,’ said Fat Man, ‘but I’ve been thinking. Make it an obvious arson job, then bleedin’ Sammy Adams won’t get his insurance paid. Instead, he’ll get investigated by the police for a fraudulent claim.’

‘Well, I can see yer point, Mister Ford,’ said Sparky. ‘But I don’t like the prospects of being investigated meself as well.’

‘You’ve got no record,’ said Fat Man.

‘But I ask yer, do I want to start one?’ said Sparky plaintively. ‘It’ll ruin me living.’

‘Just don’t leave any fingerprints,’ said Fat Man. ‘Or any footprints. D’you need any help?’

‘Help?’

‘I can let you have a back-up.’

‘Ta very much,’ said Sparky, ‘just a bloke to keep watch. It’ll take a bit of time to plant the necessary. I usually use Larry Larkins, but he fell over his feet doing a solo job at Epsom. Now, of course, he’s a guest of the law at the Scrubs, where he don’t like the food. All the way to Epsom for a few sparklers, I tell yer, he might as well have carried on till he reached Brighton Pier, where he could have fiddled a purseful of pennies out of the slot machines with no hard feelings.’

‘You’ll get your back-up,’ said Fat Man. ‘I’m now contracting you for the job. Tomorrow night.’

‘Mister Ford, I ain’t fond of that word. Contracting.’

‘Get on with it,’ said Fat Man.

‘Well, a job’s a job,’ sighed Sparky. ‘Arson, you said?’

‘Obvious arson was what I said.’

‘Might I ask the terms?’

‘Four ponies,’ said Fat Man. A hundred quid.

‘Now that’s what I am fond of,’ said Sparky, sniffing.

‘That’s all, then,’ said Fat Man, ‘and blow your nose on the way out.’

Jimmy was at the golf club, paying for a lesson from the professional. His failure to master the art of striking a ball cleanly had given him not only mortification, but the groans of a girl with stunning looks and high-class style. Since his sense of failure had, in a manner of speaking, followed him about, he had finally decided to have the friendly pro teach him the basics. That was purely in the hope of restoring some of his manly pride, not for making himself eligible for another round with Jenny. She and her group, sufficient unto themselves, appeared and reappeared on Daymer Beach without looking for other company.

Mind, she had spoken to him once, catching up with him in the sea.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said.

‘Well, hello, it’s you,’ said Jimmy. ‘How’s your golf?’

‘I don’t play a lot when I’m on holiday,’ said Jenny, rising from the sea to present her shining wet swimsuit to his eyes. Its bodice clung without
coyness around her healthy and interesting development. ‘I’d get booed if I did. Who are you here with?’

‘My family,’ said Jimmy. ‘Here, it consists of my parents and two of my sisters, an uncle and aunt and their twins. My other sister and my brother—’

‘They’re not here,’ stated Jenny.

‘No, my other sister’s up in the Lake District.’

‘Lovely,’ said Jenny. ‘By the way, sorry I can’t invite you to join our lot, but the ones in trousers say you’d be odd. We’re four and four, you see.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Jimmy, ‘so tell the ones in trousers I don’t hold it against them. Nobody likes to be odd, anyway.’

‘On the other hand, Fiona thinks you’re a sweetie,’ said Jenny.

‘I’m touched, and I think I’ve met Fiona,’ said Jimmy.

‘Fiona’s evil,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s livid about my RAF shirts, and she’ll pinch one if she can.’

‘Tell her to come to the store,’ said Jimmy, ‘and I’ll sell her as many as she’d like.’

‘You traitor,’ said Jenny. Waist-high in the sea, she splashed him with some of it. ‘Don’t you dare do that. Those shirts are exclusive to me. Sell her Waaf shirts instead, if she ever gets there. But I’m not telling.’

‘Your men’s shirts suit you, I’ll say that much,’ said Jimmy.

‘Thanks,’ said Jenny, ‘and I must say you’re a better salesman than a golfer.’

‘Listen, Miss Osborne,’ said Jimmy, ‘that was the first time I’ve ever tried the game, and if Fiona’s evil, so was that golf ball.’

Jenny laughed.

‘You’re not a bad old joker,’ she said. ‘Well, so long, must get back to my loud lot.’ Off she went to rejoin her group in the watery distance.

That, as well as the other reasons, put Jimmy on the practice green with the golf club’s professional, who set about the task of helping him to acquire what was most important to any golfer, the right kind of swing. The pro’s instructions were clear, given and repeated with the necessary patience. For half an hour, Jimmy didn’t hit a ball. He wasn’t asked to, he was simply required to first develop a satisfactory swing. That necessitated keeping his bonce still, and following all the way through with his arms.