Chapter 54 - Onwards and Upwards

Some music from the Epic Music Channel

Carnivorous flames leapt towards the row of sausages curled over the sizzling spit like the desperate fingers of the condemned. Among the blazing logs Adrian and Jon fed from woodpile hidden behind Ike's turquoise construction trailer peeped blackened lumps: foil-wrapped potatoes. After the recent rain, the combustibles were damp despite the plastic tarp spread across the top of the pile, and they put up a good fight, featuring loud crackles, hisses of protest and the occasional shower of sparks.

The air, superheated at the front, clammy and damp at Gary's back, tasted of mushrooms, wet earth and the acrid smoke from the fire, but there was something profoundly satisfying, if not superbly atavistic about barbecuing over an open fire.

The LiteraTours womenfolk kept clattering and banging about inside, in Ike's bonsai kitchen that would have done an aeroplane proud. Equipped with a mini fridge, a mini sink, two gas rings fed by a bottle of propane gas parked in the trampled grass in front of the trailer and lots of nifty shuttered pigeon holes that held her provisions, the place was as tiny as it was neat.

Not only the kitchen, but the whole trailer also shone with cleanliness, twinkled with fairy-lights strung along the roof and smelled of the beeswax she used to polish the soft amber panels on the walls. It wasn't one fourth the size of Gary's poxy house, but it felt like ten times the home.

Emma possessed the same magic touch . . .

You don't need an interior designer, let alone a woman in your life!

By way of distraction, Gary jiggled the spit. Dark thoughts must never take root under such beautiful starry skies, not when surrounded by friends and the aromas of broiling meat, rosemary and apple wood that slowly drifted towards the river, a glittery band at the far end of the campground.

"That stuff ready any time soon?" Adrian asked and swigged beer straight from the bottle. He had brought two crates of the gunk (apparently containing an eclectic selection from a micro-brewery on Holy Island or something similarly outlandish) and found instant takers in Lorna and Aline.

Neither Brigitte nor Ike liked beer. Nor did Gary. Jon wasn't supposed to have an opinion yet though Gary suspected he might be a tad too optimistic on that front. In any case, the two crates would go far.

The window to the far right of the trailer flew open with a bang, and Lorna stuck out her head, rhinestone glassed fogged by whatever was on the boil. "Chaps, are you ready for the corn cobs? They're almost done, just need warming up."

"Two more minutes, better get cracking," Gary said. "We need to put everything on the table at the same time, it will cool off too fast otherwise."

"Oh jolly good, you can then slap on the marinated steaks at the same time. They can cook while we start on the bangers." The window slammed shut again.

In the orangey glow thrown by the fire and the nearest of the shiny globes that illuminated the gravel paths, Adrian's face was a plane of shadows, but Gary could detect a smile only through the glint of white teeth.

"Funny idea to have a BBQ at this time of the year," Adrian said.

"Huh. Ike was adamant to invite us all and short of piling into the nearest pub, so this was the only option. Weather's not too bad, though."

"Nothing like rusticating it, no matter what the season. I'm not complaining, though, makes a pleasant change from chasing criminals." With a slurp, Adrian finished his bottle and reached for the crate parked next to the trestle table neatly aligned with the cherry laurel hedge, piled with salads, dips, Brigitte's special garlic butter and whatever else the ladies had been cooking up in their respective homes and transported across in Brigitte's coach.

Once the next tour they had fought so hard to make it happen had ended (another enormous success) the season was over, both in Germany and in Rome.

Time to slow down, lick wounds, egos, and whatever else had got hurt in the process and, most importantly, count the pennies and pray they would last until spring. Though he might have found a solution to that little problem.

And clean the house, Gary thought. I swear, I will.

The tromping of many feet announced the arrival of the four women. Single file they poured down the wooden steps, then split up in a movement so precise, Wellington would have blushed with pride. Aline and Lorna towards the fire, wielding corncobs on sticks, Brigitte and Ike towards the table carrying pitchers of steaming mulled wine, an eager Boris trundling after them.

Not his favourite by no means, but this brew was delicious. An old recipe handed down in Ike's family. Gary considered the stuff to be pure poetry. Well, quite a few of Ike's ancestors had been successfully slinging rhymes, so why not?

Gary poked the nearest sausage with his spare skewer. Done. He might not be the MasterChef Champion, but he knew where to buy the best meat and, better even, he knew how to cook it.

"Dinner's ready," he yelled.

"My lord has gonged?" Adrian said.

Laughter.

Oh, shut up the lot of you. But he couldn't help the smile.

Three sausages, two lamb cutlets, half a steak and way too many potatoes smothered in creamy dips and crispy salads later Gary felt too full to rise from a chair whose wooden backrest was pressing into his spine and which gave the increasingly chilly air currents access to his fleece-covered back.

And if he drank one more pitcher of mulled wine, he would miss the campground toilet, tumble into the river and make poor Jon a full orphan, which would throw him at the mercy of his grandparents. Not a good idea, given all the time, money and effort spent to poke a spanner into the wheels of his in-laws.

The lawyer had still been what he coined "cautiously optimistic", a phrase Gary had so far encountered only in matters medical, and sinister ones at that. He had advised Gary not to expose his son to any more crime scenes, congratulated him on Jon's rapid removal when faced with the "little issue" in Rome, and claimed to see ways and means of blocking the "ill-advised" move made by Gary's in-laws.

The man had adjusted the cuffs of his snowy shirt, ensuring that the charcoal jacket with its powder-blue pinstripe kept an appropriate distance from said cuffs and sniffed.

"There's always the problem of the mother figure, though."

"My wife is dead."

"I know that, Lord Nettlehole. My condolences. What I meant was, the other party will argue the boy needs a mother figure in his life. His grandmother, for example. Now, please don't take this the wrong way, your lordship, I really don't think they can win over that technicality."

"But?"

Pale fingers playing with square gold cufflinks. Another sniffle.

"Well, how to put it? Your lordship is what, forty?"

"Thirty-nine and two months! It's in the documents."

"Of course, it is. What I'm trying to say is, you're still a young man. Need I say more?"

Good job he didn't, Gary might have stormed, well: limped from the office, and that would have left him without legal representation. He wasn't young anymore. Didn't feel like it. And the love of his life was gone, had left behind a vast big black hole he was still trying to extricate himself from.

Or was he?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lorna said with a twinkle in her glasses. Perhaps it was only a reflection of the kerosene lanterns spaced at regular intervals on the table.

"Inflation would long have made that a pound, if not more." A quick peep at Jon, but he had left the table and was racing the Corgi to the Thames. "I've got lawyers on my mind."

"Ah bah," said Brigitte. "It'll turn out all right. They can't separate an orphaned boy from his surviving parent. That would be sheer lunacy."

Adrian opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Gary could not agre more. These days, sheer lunacy ruled supreme. "Let's talk about something more constructive," he said with false cheer.

"Like murder?" Adrian, having scorned the mulled wine, had arrayed an impressive amount of bottles on the ground and still, his speech wasn't slurred in the slightest. Just rough, but that was normal.

"Oh, man," Ike said. "Don't remind me of that weirdo."

"Is this a good moment to remind you of our previous discussions? I mean the ones where I pointed out to you that, had you waited a minute longer, you could have watched the cops arrive?"

Ike toyed with her mustard-stained knife. "No, Gary, it'll never be a good moment. I've told you before and will do so again, they would never have got the cretin to admit anything."

All eyes were on Adrian.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.