Waldo walked Rusty home, having decided that one post-cocktail party incident behind the wheel was enough for one evening. At least he walked her wherever it was she was going, since at first neither of them seemed to have any definite idea of their final destination.
‘You don’t want to go home?’ Waldo asked her again, having made the initial enquiry as to which direction they should take. ‘But I thought—’
‘Assumed, you mean,’ Rusty muttered. ‘Though why – search me. After all that stuff in there about something awful happening and all that.’ She nodded her head backwards in the direction of Gloria Morrison’s house, sinking her hands deep in her coat pockets and trudging down the lane that led only to the estuary.
‘That where you intend spending the night?’ Waldo wondered as he fell into step beside her.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘A matter of some concern, that’s all. I don’t particularly like the idea of you sleeping rough.’
‘Who said anything about me sleeping rough?’
‘This only leads down to the estuary – at high tide. Which is what it is now. At low tide – OK. You might be able to take a short cut to the quays and huddle in a hut somewhere for the night, but for the next couple of hours you’re not going any farther than the water’s edge.’
‘So what?’ Rusty muttered. ‘What’s it matter to you?’
‘I don’t like the thought of you stuck there at high tide. Anything wrong with that?’
Rusty just shrugged by way of an answer.
‘Why don’t you go home?’ Waldo persisted. ‘If I don’t say anything – and I’ll make good and sure Mrs Morrison doesn’t say anything—’
‘That’s not the point,’ Rusty interrupted, coming to a stop at the top of the shingled beach. Only a matter of a few yards below, large dark waves were breaking noisily on the shore. ‘The point is I can’t go home.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because – because I can’t. Because I’ve run away.’
‘You haven’t run very far, Rusty,’ Waldo observed with a smile, before turning up the collar of his coat to shelter a match for the cigar he began to light. ‘I mean if I was running away from home I’d have run a hell of a sight further before breaking in somewhere to try to bolster my exit funds.’
He glanced over the end of his cigar at the small, diffident figure who was standing idly kicking stones.
‘Forgive me for my curiosity,’ Waldo continued. ‘But when a young lady is married she might leave home, or leave her husband – but she doesn’t really run away, surely, does she? Not unless – not unless something awful has befallen her.’
Rusty said nothing. She just shrugged again and continued to kick at the pebbles.
‘Has something upset you, Rusty? Married folks have arguments, we all know that – and sometimes the arguments get a little heated—’
‘It’s nothing like that. I haven’t had no argument – and Peter – Peter would never get angry or anything. He’d certainly never raise a hand to me. Or anyone come to that.’
‘Yet you’re running away from home. So you say.’
‘Yes.’
‘Or maybe you’re just running away full stop. From something that has happened to you.’
‘Maybe I am.’
‘OK.’
Waldo said nothing more. He just stood on the edge of the beach smoking his cigar and watching distant lights bounce off the dark waters of the estuary. Rusty said nothing for a while either. She simply continued slowly kicking pebbles, with her hands sunk deep in her pockets and her shoulders hunched.
‘If you really want to know,’ she said out of the blue, ‘I lost my baby.’
‘You poor kid,’ Waldo said. ‘That’s a terrible thing to happen to anyone. You poor kid.’
Rusty stopped kicking the stones and took a sideways glance at the tall man beside her who was standing still looking out to sea as he spoke. She frowned, wondering when the inevitable question was going to be asked, when he would wonder how she lost it, and why. But the tall dark American said nothing more for the moment. He just shook his head sadly once and continued to smoke his cigar.
‘I’ve got another child, a little boy. Tam,’ Rusty volunteered after another long silence. ‘He’s a lovely little boy, and the – the baby I lost, it was a little girl.’
‘I see.’
‘My mother would have preferred it if it had been a boy, but then it wasn’t, was it.’
‘I can never understand why so many women only want sons. If every baby born was a boy the world would very soon run out of women – but then maybe that’s how some women would prefer it.’
There followed another long pause, broken only by the crashing of the waves and the pulling back of the shingle.
‘Who’s looking after Tam then?’ Waldo wondered, tapping the ash off the end of his cigar with one little finger. ‘That was the name, right? Tam?’
Waldo had deliberately repeated the name with an added resonance, in the hope of agitating Rusty into a fuller explanation. Instead, all he got was silence.
‘Your mother, I guess,’ he continued. ‘And she must be a good pair of hands – or sure as anything you wouldn’t have been happy to leave your little boy with her. Had you any idea of where you might be headed?’
‘Mother’s taken Tam over,’ Rusty replied angrily, ignoring the second part of Waldo’s question. ‘Even if I’d wanted to bring him with me she wouldn’t have let me. Like the way she took Jeannie.’
‘Jeannie?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘But I thought you only had one—’
‘I said it doesn’t matter!’
Rusty was looking at him fiercely now, breathing in and out deeply before turning on her heel and walking back up the path away from the sea. Waldo let her go ahead of him before ambling along after her.
‘I lost my sense!’ she called out loudly. ‘I just lost a bit of sense! That’s all that happened! Hardly surprising neither! I lost a bit of sense!’
This time it was Waldo who chose not to reply at once, gambling on the fact that now she had somehow been touched on the quick, she might drop her guard and consequently be a little more forthcoming. He’d already concluded that the loss of a baby might make anyone unstable, be it only for a short space of time.
‘Not surprising at all.’ Waldo deliberately kept his voice low, so that Rusty might not hear exactly what he said. He saw the ruse had worked as Rusty stopped and turned back to him.
‘What did you say? I didn’t quite catch that.’
‘Nothing important.’
‘If you think it’s easy – if you think I’m just feeling sorry for myself—’
‘I didn’t say anything along those lines, I assure you.’
‘If you think leaving your little boy behind, and your husband – if you think losing a baby and leaving your little boy behind and thinking you don’t love your husband no more – if you think that’s easy—’
‘On the contrary,’ Waldo assured her, having now caught up with her. ‘I imagine what you’re going through must be perfect hell. That’s why I want to help you.’
‘You want to help me?’ Rusty stared at him with a deep, suspicious frown. ‘Why do you want to help me? How?’
‘I’m not altogether sure. In any way I can, I suppose. I don’t have anywhere of my own to live, otherwise I could offer you accommodation until—’
‘I wouldn’t take it.’ Rusty shook her head at him fiercely. ‘I wouldn’t take nothing from any stranger.’
‘You were quite prepared to take something from Mrs Morrison.’
‘I’d lost a bit of sense!’ Rusty yelled at him. ‘Don’t you understand! Don’t you understand I’m not exactly in my right sense!’
‘Then why don’t we take you home?’ Waldo suggested.
‘Home? Home’s the very last place I’m going, I can tell you!’
‘Tam’ll be missing you.’
‘Tam’ll be fast asleep!’
‘He’ll miss you when he wakes up and finds you’re not there.’
Rusty looked at him silently for a moment, considering this. ‘He’s got his gran.’
‘Little boys prefer their mother. Believe me. I was a little boy once.’
‘I’m not going home,’ Rusty said finally, but not with quite as much certainty as before.
‘OK. I know – the vicarage. I’m sure the good vicar will be able to help.’
‘I don’t need no help from no vicar neither.’
‘OK. Just a thought.’
‘Yes.’
They walked on up the lane, going nowhere in particular.
‘OK,’ Waldo concluded when they reached the T junction at the top. ‘Right then. Long as you’re all right – and don’t need any more help from anyone, let alone me – this is where I say goodnight. And I hope you find somewhere warm and dry to rest your head. Cheerio, Rusty.’ He doffed his big black hat, smiled, and turned to his right to retrace his steps back to Gloria. In his head he gave her twenty but she was running up behind him before he had even counted to ten.
‘Wait! No – please, please wait! Please?’
Waldo waited, but without turning.
Rusty came all the way round him so they could be face to face.
‘I can’t go home,’ she said quietly. ‘They’d murder me.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t know my parents.’
‘And they don’t know me.’
Rusty frowned up at him, unable to make sense out of this person who’d come into her life. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Do you trust me?’
‘I don’t even know you.’
‘Easier, then. To trust me.’
‘Forgive the intrusion,’ Waldo said as he took off his hat to stand in the cramped living room of the Todds’ house. ‘I know it’s awful late but I simply had to stop by and tell you personally how grateful I am to this young lady here. To your daughter, Mr Todd. Mrs Todd.’ He nodded to both of Rusty’s parents before turning to smile at Peter. ‘And I guess you must be Peter.’
‘We’ve been worried sick,’ Mrs Todd said, wiping her perfectly clean hands down on her apron. ‘We been worried sick wondering what become of her.’
‘I really should let Rusty here explain,’ Waldo said before Rusty could say a word. ‘But I guess her modesty would prevail and you wouldn’t hear the half of it. So if I may?’ He cleared his throat. ‘As of course you are all aware,’ Waldo went on refusing the offer by Peter of a flimsy-looking chair. ‘As you are all perfectly aware, young Rusty here has been suffering from an emotional upset. This is none of my business of course, but I mention it because Rusty mentioned it to me and because it explains her sudden disappearance this evening. But your loss was someone else’s gain, the way these things often turn out to be. My gain in fact. Because if it hadn’t been for young Rusty here, I would be a much poorer man and so too would my good friend Mrs Morrison, with whom you may well be acquainted.’
‘We know who Mrs Morrison is,’ Mr Todd nodded, taking his old pipe out of his coat pocket, only to have it immediately confiscated by his wife. ‘Lives in that fancy house up on the corner of the quays.’
‘I happen to be staying with Mrs Morrison—’
‘We know that and all,’ Mr Todd added.
‘And the both of us were attending the party that was held this evening at Miss Gore-Stewart’s.’
‘That right.’
‘It certainly is. Anyway, to continue—’
‘Please do,’ Mr Todd remarked, trying unsuccessfully to wrest his pipe back from Mrs Todd.
‘On our return to Mrs Morrison’s house,’ Waldo continued, ‘we were confronted by the sight of a youth wearing some sort of woollen helmet over his face—’
‘A balaclava,’ Peter offered helpfully. ‘They’re known as balaclavas.’
‘Thank you, Peter. Yes, we were confronted by this youth in a balaclava wool helmet running hell for leather out of Mrs Morrison’s house with his pockets bulging with what I imagine we would all call loot.’
All eyes were on Waldo, and none more intently than Rusty’s.
‘He was gone down the lane before I could give proper chase,’ Waldo said. ‘But just as I was about to try to go after him, out of the lane just beyond the house appears this other figure, smaller than our fugitive but I dare say equally determined, except happily her determination unlike the fugitive’s was for the good. Rusty in other words. Your very brave and resolute daughter, Mr Todd, who went after that villainous youth like a terrier after a rabbit. And you know what? She caught him. She threw herself at his legs, wrapped her arms round them and brought him crashing to the ground – whereupon she jumped on him, pinned his arms to the ground and sat on his chest.’
‘That’s my Rusty,’ Peter said proudly. ‘Brave as a young lion.’
‘That’s Rusty all right,’ her father sighed. ‘She’s thrown her big brother across this room more times than I like to remember, a tomboy to the last.’
‘By the time I’d got to the thief he was still quite helpless, in spite of his struggles. We frogmarched him back to Mrs Morrison’s, emptied his full to brimming pockets, and – ah—’ Waldo hesitated as he realised he had arrived at a part of his story that he hadn’t prepared. If he said he had handed the youth over to the police, what with Bexham being such a small community his lie would soon become apparent. Even if he made out that he had handed him over to the police from the nearest big town, he guessed the Todds would be scouring every local newspaper report for news of their errant daughter’s heroism. Happily, it was Rusty’s turn to leap in and come to the rescue.
‘It wasn’t your fault about the window,’ Rusty put in.
‘You don’t reckon?’ Waldo said, with as much sangfroid as he could muster.
‘Mrs Morrison and the gentleman here locked the lad in the downstairs toilet while they called the police – and he got out through the window. Somehow.’
‘The one thing we didn’t think of was the window.’ Waldo nodded, hoping the Todds never visited Gloria Morrison’s and needed to use the facilities, when they would soon discover that in order to escape through the rest room window you would need to be either a child no older than two or three or a circus midget.
‘And the blighter was out of there in a flash,’ Rusty added. ‘Although he’d need to have been some sort of contortionist.’
‘But you got a good look at him,’ Peter said. ‘Good enough to recognise him again if you saw him.’
‘The other thing we failed to do, Peter,’ Waldo sighed, ‘was to remove his bacalava.’
‘Balaclava.’
‘His balaclava. Anyway – the good thing is Mrs Morrison and I recovered all our chattels – and the main thing was your daughter’s act of amazing heroism.’
‘Amazing’s the word for it,’ Mrs Todd said. ‘Seeing the state she’s been in.’
‘I think we’d all be surprised what a long walk on a bitterly cold night can do for the head,’ Waldo said gravely. ‘Followed by some quite unexpected adventure—’ He smiled at the assembled company and made as if to take his leave. ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘The point is Rusty here did a brave and unselfish thing for two people she didn’t know. And although it’s no business of mine, other than to congratulate you both for having such a remarkable daughter – and you, sir, for having such a remarkable young wife, and to thank Rusty here for her heroism, I feel sure that whatever upset Rusty might have caused you by her sudden disappearance this evening, and whatever might have happened to have caused that disappearance, you can all of you put it behind you now and be very proud of this fine young lady here – who really has made this evening quite a night.’
No-one said a thing, not even Rusty, tempted as she was to throw her arms around this stranger’s neck and smother his face with grateful kisses, which would not have been at all like her. All that happened was that Peter put his arm around Rusty’s shoulders and hugged her to him, shyly kissing the top of her head, while Mrs Todd reluctantly handed her husband back his faithful pipe.
A minute later Waldo was striding back home to Gloria’s house, whistling ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’.
‘Tell you what we have to do and do it pretty quick,’ Peter said to Rusty later, after he had brought her up a mug of hot cocoa to sip in the comfort of their bed. ‘First thing we have to do is find us somewhere to live. By ourselves. We can’t go on living like this. It isn’t right or fair, not on anyone.’
‘First we got to have something to live on,’ Rusty said, with a half-smile, sipping her cocoa.
‘We could try my wages,’ Peter replied with a grin, sitting down slowly and carefully on the bed.
‘Mind my cocoa!’ Rusty warned, as the bed rocked despite his care.
‘I know I’m not bringing home enough, but perhaps if I had to—’ Peter stopped and looked at her.
‘Up to you,’ Rusty replied. ‘Whatever you want, I’ll go along with. Particularly if it means getting out of here.’
‘I got some ideas, Rusty. And as soon as we get some capital—’
‘Pete?’ Rusty interrupted. ‘Sorry.’
‘You don’t have to apologise for nothing, Rusty. I’m the one who should be apologising for neglecting you.’
‘It’s going to get better now, Peter. I can feel it. Just as they say – things have to get worse to get better.’
‘I think you’re right, Rusty. I can feel it, too. And let’s face it, they can’t get much worse so they’ve got to get better.’
Peter grinned at her and so infectious was the smile that Rusty laughed. They both laughed and it was the first time for as long as both of them could remember.
Waldo knew this was only a beginning, but Waldo was a patient man so he bided his time. His favourite uncle’s business motto had been contained in three words – Don’t Be Previous. Although for a long time, as a young boy growing up, Waldo had always felt impressed by the axiom, he had absolutely no idea as to what it meant, until he finally plucked up the courage to ask.
‘It means, my boy, don’t be hasty and don’t rush at things,’ his Uncle Harry had told him, taking off his glasses and staring at Waldo. ‘It means always take time because time is all it takes. The longer people have to wait for your decision the more important it will seem. The very same goes for any offer you might be thinking of making. The longer you take to make it, the more of a bargain will it be considered, and the better for you the reward. Nobody ever won anything by being previous. But they sure have lost things, kid. Believe me.’
So when Waldo finally drove his Buick up North Hill to refill its large petrol tank with as much fuel as he could obtain on the coupons he’d been given, he was able to congratulate himself for being well this side of previous. In point of fact he had allowed more than a fortnight to pass since the night he had caught Rusty Sykes stealing from Gloria.
‘You get quite a view from up here,’ Waldo remarked as he counted out the petrol coupons he had obtained, heaven and Mrs Morrison only knew how. ‘Particularly now the weather’s improving so dramatically. Bexham really is what we Americans love to call quaint.’
‘Quaint,’ Peter Sykes smiled. ‘I’ve heard it called a lot of things, sir, but never quaint.’
‘No, really? Oh, it’s a word I sometimes think we Americans have become infected with,’ Waldo replied. ‘Soon as we set foot on these shores. I don’t mean it to sound insulting – I suppose it’s simply because we don’t have a word good enough to describe what appeals to us as a small but somewhat mystical country. Maybe I should just stick to beautiful, after all? Because that’s really what your little port here is, it’s beautiful.’
‘You staying long in Bexham? Or just passing through?’
‘I was thinking of just passing through, but Bexham seems to have caught a hold of me. So much so I was actually thinking of renting a property here for the summer.’
‘Well, now, sir. That does sound a good plan, if I may say so. Bexham is a lovely place in the summer, particularly if you sail.’
‘Yes, I sail. As a matter of fact I was thinking of hiring somewhere along the estuary – be grateful for any local knowledge. I imagine you must hear quite a lot of tittle-tattle from your regulars. So if you do hear of any houses for hire – I’m staying with Mrs Morrison as you know.’
‘Indeed I do, sir. And if I hear tell of any houses for rent—’
‘Or even for sale—’
‘I shall let you know at once, sir.’
‘Most kind. Very kind. If you’d be good enough to check the oil and water while you’re at it, Mr Sykes?’
Peter nodded and eyed the dial on the pump as it spun towards its allotted six gallons.
‘Lovely car, sir, but she must drink a fair bit,’ Peter said, as he hooked the nozzle of the petrol hose back into the Shell pump. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘No more than the average Sherman tank.’ Waldo sighed. ‘For some crazy reason my father brought this car over with him before the war, some time in the nineteen thirties, and left it here. Couldn’t be bothered to ship it back. I have been toying with the idea of finding myself something a little less thirsty and a little more suitable for the winding English roads. Do you deal in cars at all? Do you have any second hand stock?’
‘We used to deal quite a lot before the war, sir, my father and I that is. But as you can imagine the market is more or less non-existent now, particularly in these parts.’
Peter replaced the petrol hose as Waldo opened up the Buick’s big bonnet.
‘I could look around for something if you wish, sir. If you tell me your requirements.’
‘Something for the summer days, I think, Mr Sykes. Something sportif – a ragtop I’d say. A car to, as they say, ruffle one’s hair.’
‘I’ll see what I can find for you, sir. And you’re very low on oil.’
‘Mmm, so I am.’ Waldo smiled hugely. ‘So I am. Just as well I came to see you, Mr Sykes. Just as well. How’s that heroic young wife of yours, by the by?’
‘She’s very well, sir, thank you for asking. In fact she’s altogether well in herself now.’
‘That’s good. Maybe that famous deed of daring helped her turn. Who knows?’
‘Who knows, indeed, sir. Who knows indeed.’
Loopy was taken quite by surprise the coming weekend. She had been shopping in Churchester with Judy and they had returned earlier than expected, empty-handed. Judy had dropped Loopy off at the end of her driveway and refused tea since she suddenly found herself anxious to get back to Walter. Loopy smiled to herself as she wandered up the drive to her own house. It wasn’t so very long ago that she would have been behaving in exactly the same fashion, waiting to hear the shutting of the car door outside and Hugh’s tread on the gravel, the opening of the front door, and his call into the house as he tossed his hat onto the stand. Although she still looked forward to seeing him home, she nevertheless now often found herself only too relieved to be alone for a few days a week, happy to be painting rather than waiting for the sound of his step. It wasn’t that she no longer loved him – in fact she often thought that possibly she loved him even more than she had ever done – it was just that inside her head she had grown older, perhaps even older than her actual years, thanks she imagined to the war.
When Walter had been declared missing presumed killed part of her had gone missing with him; and although she was past that terrible crisis, redeemed by her middle son’s miraculous return, she was aware that the experience had changed her. For some reason she could not precisely name, it seemed to have changed her more than it had her husband, who as always appeared to have taken everything in his stride, so much so that it sometimes seemed to Loopy that Hugh no longer loved her the way he had loved her before her wartime crisis when he had stayed in London so much, pleading security matters. Of course she was aware that love changed – not that it altered when it alteration found, but that as one grew older so its very nature shifted. But whereas she hoped her love for Hugh had matured and strengthened, she suspected Hugh’s might have gone in the very opposite direction. She worried that he had become bored with her, that she no longer amused him, that nowadays when he sat down at the piano he played and sung more to himself than to her.
Even so, she still entered the house with a light step at the prospect of seeing him. There was still enough of that old feeling of anticipation, enough of the hope that she could bring a smile to his face, or perhaps make him laugh out loud when she recounted Judy’s and her farcical shopping adventures earlier. As she opened the drawing room door Loopy thought that maybe she might be able to charm her man so well that he might once again be persuaded to play ‘Night and Day’ before he mixed the cocktails as he had always used to do.
‘Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry, honey – I didn’t realise you had a visitor.’
It wasn’t the fact that Hugh had somebody with him that surprised her. It was the look of what seemed to her to be a strange complicity between them. The way they both started when she came in, the way Hugh’s visitor got quickly to her feet while stowing something away in her pocket as if she didn’t want anyone to see what it was, the look of irritated surprise on Hugh’s face, as if he was really rattled, then finally his diplomatically urbane smile.
‘Loopy, darling. I didn’t hear you come in. I wasn’t expecting you back so early.’
‘We had a kind of frustrating afternoon so Judy and I decided to cut our losses. Meggie – how nice to see you.’
She kissed Meggie on the cheek. Her behaviour was impeccable. So impeccable in fact that Meggie could never have suspected for a moment how Loopy felt on discovering her so unexpectedly at Shelborne.
Moments later Loopy turned to see Gwen ushering Waldo Astley into the house.
‘Hugh seems to have decided to hold a house party here without telling me,’ she joked to Meggie. ‘May I introduce Mr Waldo Astley, Miss Gore-Stewart.’
‘We’ve met already, Loopy darling—’ Meggie laughed.
‘Of course. You two met at Meggie’s cocktail party, didn’t you?’ Loopy smiled, feeling foolish.
It was Hugh who was smiling at Loopy now, repeatedly tapping an untipped cigarette on the back of his silver case before lighting it.
‘Mr Astley and I bumped into each other in the Three Tuns at lunchtime, so here we all are, hands across the sea, and all that. Will you ask Gwen to bring us in some tea, darling?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Given the nature of Hugh’s government work Loopy always knew better than to ask too much, yet she couldn’t help wondering what it was that Meggie had been showing Hugh when she came in.
‘Come on, Hugh.’ Meggie was teasing him now. ‘I’d say the sun was sufficiently over the yard arm for something a little more serious than tea, wouldn’t you?’
Loopy turned at that. It was difficult not to feel irritated by Meggie’s easy manner with her husband. She tried to reassure herself that it came purely and simply from their wartime relationship, when Meggie had worked as an agent for Hugh, but she suspected it might also come from something a little less official, namely that Meggie was an extremely attractive and beautiful young woman, and that Hugh was an extremely susceptible middle-aged man.
‘You’re right, Meggie. Sun’s dropped well and truly down below the yard arm, so out with the nose paint,’Hugh agreed, drawing on his cigarette. ‘Whisky? Mr Astley? The real McCoy I assure you, not watered down cough mixture. Meggie?’
‘Only the very quickest of quickies for me, Hugh, because I have to dash.’
Taking the shot of whisky and soda Hugh handed to her, Meggie raised her glass in salute then drank it down in two.
‘Excuse the rush, but I suddenly – remembered an appointment,’ she said, picking up her gloves and bag. ‘Goodbye, Mr Astley. Hugh darling.’ Meggie nodded at Waldo, blew a kiss at Hugh, and quickly kissed Loopy once again. ‘I’ll leave the men to you, Loopy darling. I must go and see to more important matters.’ She sighed and looking at Loopy with the air of a conspirator she whispered, ‘Namely – destitution!’
Meggie quickly left the room and the house, and shortly afterwards Loopy slipped out after her. By the time she had dressed herself for the evening and returned downstairs the two men were finishing what must be their second large whiskies, since they were chatting and laughing as easily as old friends.
As soon as Loopy came back into the room, both men were on their feet and a moment later Hugh was at the cocktail shaker, ready to mix Loopy’s favourite Sidecar. As she collected her glass gratefully from her husband she noticed Waldo had detached himself and wandered into the conservatory to look at some of the paintings stacked up against the wall.
‘This is rather fine,’ he called, stopping and peering at a small contemporary beach scene. ‘In fact, it’s very fine.’
‘That’s just one of Loopy’s daubs.’ Hugh turned to Loopy and they both laughed, because it was a family joke – Loopy’s daubs.
‘That’s why it’s in the conservatory. It’s not allowed in here. Eighteenth-century watercolours only, please observe. My paintings are far too bright for my husband’s taste.’
‘Is this really by you, Mrs Tate?’ Waldo turned to Loopy.
‘It is only – as my husband has just warned you, Mr Astley – one of my daubs, that’s all.’
‘Actually this is a very fine painting, if I may say so.’
Hugh turned to Loopy. ‘I think he just wants another drink, darling.’
‘Did you train at all, Mrs Tate? I often think those who don’t go to some sort of school are the most expressive. They haven’t had that vital sensitivity stamped out of them by the leaden boots of some half-talented teacher.’
‘Mrs Tate is entirely self-taught, aren’t you, darling? Self-trained entirely. Strictly a Monday to Friday painter, because on Friday she starts thinking about her old man coming back from London, which is only proper.’
‘May I see some of your other work?’
‘I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, Mr Astley, really not.’ Loopy shook her head. ‘My husband’s right. I’m a Monday-to-Friday painter – I don’t have to do it. I don’t have to do it to earn a living.’
‘I would still like to see more.’
Loopy glanced at Hugh who simply widened his eyes in mock amazement.
‘If you will allow me the privilege.’
Loopy hesitated. She wanted very much to take Mr Astley upstairs into the room she was using as her studio and show him her work, because she was simply burning to show someone who would not just dismiss her work as daubs, as her family had always done. But she was all too aware that to do so would be to incur Hugh’s jealousy. She looked from one man to the other hoping that Hugh would concede, that he would suddenly smile at her, wink and tell her to go on upstairs and show the man what he wanted to see. But she could see that Hugh’s expression had grown dark at the very idea, while Waldo Astley’s remained entirely impassive.
‘It’s getting rather late,’ Hugh said suddenly. ‘Don’t you have to get back to Mrs Morrison, Mr Astley? She eats early, doesn’t she, before the inevitable bridge game?’
‘Not for quite a while yet, Mr Tate,’ Waldo replied with a slow smile. ‘Not for quite a while.’
‘Well, I’m terribly hungry,’ Hugh complained. ‘Perhaps you ought to ask Gwen to get a move on with dinner, Loopy.’
‘I have already spoken to Gwen, Hugh. Dinner won’t be ready for half an hour yet.’
‘Plenty of time, then, for you to allow me to see your work, Mrs Tate.’
Loopy looked again at Hugh, but since he had turned his back and poured himself a third whisky she could not see the expression on his face, or even guess at his feelings, whatever they might be.
‘Very well.’ Loopy suddenly announced her decision, loudly enough and with enough determination to cause her husband to spill the whisky he was pouring from the decanter. ‘Why not? Maybe I shall find out whether or not I’m a dauber, a part-time painter, perhaps even an undiscovered genius.’
Giving her attractively husky laugh, Loopy held the door open for Waldo Astley to precede her out of the room and up the stairs and so to the moment that would change the second half of her life for ever.
As Waldo was standing looking at each canvas held up in turn by his elegant hostess of that moment, high up on the hill above Bexham harbour Rusty was emerging from the back of her husband’s garage block covered in grime and dust.
‘We could easily move in here, Peter,’ she said to her husband, who was locking up the premises. ‘There’s three rooms over the old stores which would make up into two bedrooms and a bathroom, then if we moved the stores—’
‘It would cost too much, Rusty,’ Peter interrupted. ‘When I said find us somewhere, I wasn’t thinking of converting any property.’
‘We could do it ourselves. I can turn my hand to a few things – I didn’t learn exactly nothing in Dad’s boatyard. And you’re good with your hands – you’re a mechanic, and a good electrician.’
‘Don’t get carried away, love.’ Peter stopped her. ‘Just look at the building, will you? It’s a shed. It’s nothing more than a large wooden shed. It isn’t suitable for human habitation.’
‘We could make it suitable. Long as it’s got a roof and walls. And floors.’
‘You’re forgetting the building restrictions. To do what you’re saying we could do we’d need permissions – and they’re not giving those out to the likes of you and me, not to convert half-rotten old timber buildings into some sort of house or flat.’
Rusty was about to protest further, but realised there was no point. Peter was right on both counts. The place wasn’t fit or even meant for human habitation, and to make it so would mean a great deal of construction work for which they would most certainly not get the necessary permission. Only recently there had been a case where a well known resident of Bexham had been taken to court and fined a hundred pounds for redecorating and painting his quite substantial house without licence, while someone else who had applied perfectly properly was only allowed to spend fifty pounds on repairing incendiary bomb damage to his property.
In view of these cases, Rusty realised that there could be precious little chance of the likes of them getting permission to renovate a place that wasn’t even their residence, even if they did have the money. At this realisation the immense feeling of despair that she had been managing to keep at bay ever since suffering what her mother now described as her funny little brainstorm began to surface once again, so much so that Rusty found herself running out of the garage towards the little wood opposite, while Peter slowly limped after her and took her by the shoulders.
‘Don’t cry, Rusty,’ he said gently. ‘I know things are bad, but we’ve just got to be patient.’
‘It’s easy to say that, Peter. But this isn’t what it was meant to be going to be like.’
‘What isn’t?’
Rusty gestured hopelessly. ‘This, all this. Everything was going to be better, everything was going to be for something, not less than nothing. Things weren’t meant to be like this, not for anyone, least of all those of us who lived through it.’
‘I know. We all thought that somehow everything was going to be all right, just like that, overnight. That having won we were going to wake up to some brave, new and wonderful world. But that’s not going to happen now, is it? Not unless we make it happen. Not unless we try to rebuild it with our own hands. Blood, sweat, toil and tears, all over again, but we can do it, we can rebuild our little world.’
‘How? How can we rebuild anything?’ Rusty cried. ‘They probably wouldn’t give us the blooming permission until we’re nearly a hundred!’
Peter wiped the tears from her face with a grimy handkerchief. ‘We’ve just got to stick at it, Rusty. Long as we have each other and long as you believe in me, we’ll get there.’
‘I don’t know as to how. But I hope you’re right, Peter; but don’t ask me as to how.’
The man who was going to supply the answer to that particular question had just finished his examination of the collection of paintings that had been put before him. He still held one, a small oil measuring no more than one foot wide by ten inches high. It was of two young women sitting on a sunlit sandy beach under coloured umbrellas. By any standards it was an outstanding piece of work in the way that the artist had captured the haze and the heat of the day, as well as the delicate use of colours that were never for one moment too hot for the scene that was depicted, but by the standards of a so-called amateur painter, and a rank unschooled one at that, it was a work of considerable talent.
‘I am really at a loss for words, which as a matter of fact, Mrs Tate, is not my usual state of play.’
‘You’re not actually making sense, Mr Astley,’ Loopy remarked from her position at the window where she had been standing nervously smoking a cigarette while her guest spent what seemed to her to be an inordinately long time staring at her paintings.
‘What I meant to say, but must have omitted to do so, is that you possess a quite exceptional talent.’
Loopy stared at him, her heart seeming to be suddenly in her mouth, unable to think of anything to say, which was probably why she stubbed out her cigarette only half smoked and with unusual ferocity.
‘Very well,’ Waldo continued. ‘You might well say, and I wouldn’t blame you, what does he know? And I might well answer – really very little, which would be the very truth. I’m no art critic, and I haven’t studied art at any level other than a domestic one. But I can also answer that, possibly above everything else, I love fine painting. I have always loved painting, ever since I was young. I even wanted to be a painter. But guess what – I found I couldn’t paint. I couldn’t draw a box let alone paint it. I have absolutely no talent whatsoever, and as soon as I found this out – well before the war as it happened – I determined to discover as much as I could about painting. See as much as I could, learn to know what I liked – and I have to say I really like your work, Mrs Tate. Really. I like it quite inordinately. Nor am I judging it as the work of some unschooled amateur – I can assure you that your talent is up there along with that of many contemporary painters. These seascapes particularly are exceptional. I don’t know how you developed this style—’
‘It’s a kind of cross between pointillism and post-expressionism, but no matter how you came by it this is your style and it is both quite original and utterly beguiling.’
‘Are you sure you’re not just being kind, Mr Astley? I won’t mind if you are because I have to tell you – and this really is to go no further – you’re the first person, apart from my maid, who has actually noticed my work.’
‘Is that so? I can’t believe that.’
‘I can.’ Loopy laughed, and lit a fresh cigarette, even though she didn’t really want one, but she felt so excited that if she didn’t do something she thought she herself might go up in smoke, not just the cigarette.
‘And I’m not just being kind. If I were being kind I would say quite different things, in different words. I would say these paintings are fun – and colourful – and I would say that I imagined you got a lot of pleasure out of your hobby. And I would more or less leave it at that – and most certainly I would not have taken the best part of half an hour to come to these conclusions. But since I have, and I can hear your husband calling us from downstairs as well as the gong being sounded for dinner, I suggest we abandon the topic of your genius for the moment and pick it up again at a time convenient to you.’
‘What are you going to tell my husband, Mr Astley? Because he’s never thought too much of my paintings. I don’t want him to make fun of you. You’ve been too kind for that, really you have.’ Loopy carefully closed the door behind them, as if closing it on their secret.
There was a pause as they both stood looking at each other, Waldo realising at once where her problem might lie, and Loopy knowing instinctively that she could trust him.
‘What would you like me to tell him, Mrs Tate?’
‘Maybe that you liked my works. That you didn’t think they were a waste of time, but nothing more. Don’t eulogise about them, whatever you do. Too much praise might be embarrassing for both of us.’
‘Very well. Then that is all I shall say.’ Waldo nodded, understanding completely.
‘Thank you, Mr Astley.’
‘It is entirely my pleasure, Mrs Tate. I assure you.’
By now, to the relief of both himself and Meggie, Richards was well and truly installed as the new landlord of the Three Tuns. If there had been a good time to question his determination to maintain his sobriety Meggie knew that this had to be it, Richards let loose in his own public house. Yet as he explained to Meggie after his first week in residence – paraphrasing Shakespeare as he so often did – the more he saw people putting liquids in their mouths to take away their brains, the less he felt inclined to follow suit.
‘In fact, Miss Meggie, to be absolutely frank, when I see how utterly daft people become when they’re under the influence, I wonder not only how Madame Gran and you put up with me, but how in all honesty one put up with oneself.’
Although she said nothing to him Meggie was slightly concerned as to how the check cap, blazer and cravat brigade would react to someone of Richards’s character and demeanour running what they considered to be their local hostelry. She wasn’t worried about the fishermen and the boatmen. They would drink in the Three Tuns as long as the beer was good and as long as it was competitively priced. If the beer got cloudy and the prices got fancy, then first they would complain and then if their complaints were not attended to they would vote with their feet and take their trade elsewhere, even if in this case it meant having to travel another mile and a half to the Crown and Anchor, further along the estuary.
The check cap and blazer brigade, however, were of a totally different complexion, particularly since many of its members came from the ranks of the local Yacht Club. Meggie was concerned lest some of their number might find it funny to subject Mine Host to a barrage of what Richards always liked to call unsolicited comments. She knew such a type of person always found confirmed bachelors like Richards fair game, and took cruel enjoyment in trying to discomfort them.
Happily she had reckoned without Richards’s lifetime ability to deal with mockery.
‘Excuse me, miss?’ one of the Blazers enquired on the retired butler’s first day as landlord. ‘A pint when you’ve a moment, please, my sweet.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ Richards had replied with great aplomb. ‘With a straw?’
‘No. Straight from the tap, please, miss.’
‘Very well, madam. Coming straight up.’ After which Richards had placed a pint of water in front of the Blazer with a smile.
‘No, no – I meant a pint of ale – dearie.’
‘Whoops – my mistake, but you know how it is.’ Richards had sighed, taking the drink away. ‘I didn’t think we were quite adult enough to try alcohol yet.’
Having witnessed that early exchange and others similar, Meggie soon found her worries diminishing. In fact the more she observed with what panache Richards was able to handle contentious moments the more she realised her concerns had been quite groundless. Just as Richards had coped superbly with the vagaries of being a manservant before his drink problem overcame him, so too did he seem to quickly master the art of being a landlord. Besides, the years he had spent as a butler stood him in excellent stead, since not only did he have an encyclopaedic knowledge of drink, but he had also long since mastered the art of tact. He knew when to continue a conversation and when not to prolong it, when to pass comment and when to stay silent, and when to give advice and when not to, always bearing in mind the most important point of all: that, just as in the drawing room or dining room, those in his bar who asked for counsel must only be given the counsel they wished to hear.
As a result it was soon very obvious that Richards’s tenure of the Three Tuns was proving to be more successful than any of the village could have hoped, and of course his stock went up even further when the regulars learned of his record in the Great War. Naturally Richards never volunteered this information himself, leaving it to others to find out, which of course they soon did, the old inn being the centre of so much of the life of the village. So it was that after only a short space of time, Meggie found that she could stop worrying about the abrupt change in both their lives and turn her thoughts to other things.
The only advice Richards himself found he needed was about catering for large numbers at a time, since not only were supplies of most foodstuffs still rationed, but there were often acute shortages of the foods that were meant to be more freely available. Although he was not at all happy with having to deal with the only alternative suppliers, it soon became abundantly clear, as always, that if you could not beat them then you had to join them, particularly if you wanted your business to stay solvent. Fortunately he soon discovered that the local police were more than prepared to turn blind eyes to the ever ready stock of victuals at the Three Tuns, since they themselves were only too pleased to be able to frequent a local where they were assured of an unwatered down drink, and the sandwiches and pies had a decent and appetising filling.
One of Richards’s more original innovations was to section part of the saloon bar off into a Ladies Only snug, since not only was it still frowned upon by many for women to frequent public houses, but, as with clubmen in London, a high percentage of his male custom did not enjoy doing their drinking in the presence of women. His sympathy did not just extend to the women of the village, however. Realising that many of Bexham’s young men had few sociable places to meet members of the opposite sex, Richards soon redecorated one of the many small bars, renaming it the cocktail lounge, he made sure it was warmly lit and comfortably furnished. Meggie wondered about the wisdom of such a conversion when the supply of spirits was still noticeably short, only to be told by the new landlord that his youthful clientele met in the cocktail lounge not to drink cocktails but to be smart.
‘I should imagine that most of the young men who frequent the lounge think a Sidecar is something in which to drive their lady friends to the Three Tuns,’ Richards replied, delicately slicing a hardboiled egg. ‘Although the other day we did have the dearest of older couples in – down from the north on holiday. They were most taken with the cocktail lounge – so much so that when the gentleman came up to the bar he ordered a pint of brown and mild for himself, and for the wife – a bottle of cocktail. Too dear for words it was really.’
As always, regulars to the Three Tuns had their favourite seat, stool or position at or in their chosen bar, and Hugh and Loopy were no exception. They always called in for a drink Saturday midday after they had finished their shopping and this particular Saturday they made no exception, taking their place in their usual window seat from which they could watch the comings and goings on the quays. When Hugh went up to the bar to order a second round, Loopy saw the now familiar figure of Waldo ambling along the street that led up to the quays, a cigar stuck in one corner of his mouth and his big black slouch hat tipped at a rakish angle almost over one eye. As if feeling her stare, Waldo looked up at the bow window of the pub high above him, saw Loopy and stopped, doffing his hat with an extravagant flourish and bowing equally excessively. Loopy put a hand to her mouth and laughed then waved back in greeting with the other, amused not only by Waldo’s theatricality but most of all by the reactions of the fishermen who had witnessed the flourish.
‘Who are you laughing at?’ Hugh wondered, putting down their drinks and glancing out of the window. ‘Oh. The Yank. I might have known it.’
‘I imagined you liked the Yank, as you call him,’ Loopy replied. ‘Do you still think of me as a Yank, I wonder?’
‘Of course not,’ Hugh replied grumpily, taking out his packet of cigarettes and shaking the last one out. ‘Don’t think I ever thought of you as anything other than you, really. Cheers.’
He lifted his glass and drank, then lit his cigarette, just as the door swung open behind him and Waldo ambled in.
‘Greetings, local people,’ he said generally, taking off his hat and his long black overcoat preparatory to making himself comfortable somewhere. ‘A little bit warmer today, I think. Spring can’t be long now.’
‘Will you join us, Mr Astley?’ Loopy asked, indicating an empty chair, accompanied by an indicative frown from her husband.
‘Most kind, Mrs Tate, most kind,’ Waldo replied, looking round the crowded bar. ‘But I am otherwise engaged for the moment. Perhaps later.’
‘Delighted,’ Hugh said, drawing on his cigarette, safe in the knowledge that by the time Waldo might have prised himself free he and Loopy would be well on their way home.
‘I have to look into what is somewhat quaintly known as the public bar,’ Waldo mused, folding his coat over one arm. ‘As if the other bars in here were for private use only. A business contact you understand. Until later, perhaps.’
Having excused himself, Waldo went in search of his quarry, whom he found just as he hoped he might finishing a pint of light and bitter in the public bar.
‘Good day to you, Mr Sykes,’ he said, joining Peter at the bar. ‘Please – let me buy you a beer. I see your glass is empty. While you tell me if you have any news for me yet regarding any suitable sports car that might be for sale. I trust you have heard of something?’
While their drinks were being poured, Peter told Waldo about the few cars of which he had indeed so far heard. Unfortunately nothing seemed really suitable, judging from the disappointment he saw on his new client’s face. But that was just a snare and a delusion, a trick of the trade. Peter hadn’t learned his business at his father’s knee for nothing. Peter Sykes was keeping the best until last.
‘It isn’t definite,’ he said slowly, loading his words with as much doubt as possible. ‘It is only hearsay. But there is word of a Jaguar SS 100 that might be coming up for sale. Belonged to an RAF chap, Battle of Britain pilot, so I gather. Survived the Big One, only to get killed in the last week of the war flying his kite on some exercise or other. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Getting through the war, and then your number coming up coming in to land after some pointless exercise. Anyway – about this motor. It’s been laid up since 1940 – never driven during the war at all – which again is odd, seeing how the fighter lads liked to show off to the girls, know what I mean? Anyway, this chap laid his pride and joy up instead of joyriding, and now it might be up for sale. Might be of interest. Like new, so they tell me, sir. A Series 3 it is, three and a half litre, or if you want to be precise three thousand, four hundred and eighty-five cc.’
Waldo nodded appreciatively, but said nothing.
‘Which is a fair old lump of engine, sir,’ Peter continued. ‘The Series 3 was built in 1939. This example has only done just over fifteen hundred miles and when it was out of action it was properly laid up – wheels off, bricks under the axles, engine and sump drained, whole body covered with several layers of dust sheets. So it really should be like new. She’s barely run in yet. In a way you’d be buying a better than new car.’
‘Then no doubt you’ll want a better than new price for it, Mr Sykes,’ Waldo smiled, lighting up a fresh cigar, much to the interest of the locals in the public bar. ‘You have a figure in mind?’
Peter hesitated. Having bought the car well below the market value, at a figure of two hundred and eighty pounds, and having obtained an agreement to delay final payment for a week, he was hoping to double his money at least. Yet, being disinclined to take the American for a fool, he was a long way yet from counting his chickens.
‘You know what they cost new, sir?’ he wondered aloud instead. ‘New they cost one thousand two hundred pounds.’
‘In that case go no further. If that is what the car costs new, then that is what I shall pay. Plus your buyer’s commission, of course.’
Peter Sykes stared at Waldo, whose expression was deceptively innocent.
‘Is that not enough? You look surprised, Mr Sykes. What sort of figure did you have in mind then?’
‘The car is eight years old, Mr Astley,’ Peter stuttered. ‘When I said it was better than new—’
‘It was just a façon de parler? Your sales pitch? A little bit of an exaggeration?’
‘Well, no sir, no, not exactly. What I meant by better than new was that what with the engine being just about run in now, and the fact that if there had been any teething troubles they’re all over and done with – and the fact that it has been so well stored, as I said – what I meant was that I don’t imagine you would find a better one anywhere. They only built the Series 3 for a year, sir, so they’re as rare as rocking horse droppings – if you’ll pardon the vernacular.’
Waldo smiled broadly and drew on his cigar.
‘Go on.’
‘I think you’d have to pay a London dealer well over seven hundred for her, sir,’ he said, plucking a figure out of the air. ‘But that’s not the figure I have in mind.’
‘You have a better than new figure, Mr Sykes!’ Waldo laughed. ‘And why not? Something good, rare and beautiful is worth good money. Tell me what you were thinking.’
For some reason Peter felt himself outrun, and yet he didn’t know why. The American’s benign affability and apparent willingness to pay whatever was asked plus commission had unnerved Peter, unused as he was to this sort of negotiation. He wished devoutly his father was still alive to handle the deal for him, because he knew his old man would have got every available penny out of the Yank plus a few more, but Peter wasn’t made like that. All he wanted was to get a fair price for the car plus say a twenty per cent commission. If he could get that, then he and Rusty would be able to afford to rent the little flat above the greengrocery in the main street; have a proper home of their own.
Yet he still hesitated, feeling that to try to achieve his aims by what amounted to cheating someone as affable and generous as Mr Waldo Astley would be iniquitous. He sincerely believed he would not be able to live comfortably with his conscience after that.
‘The thing is, Mr Astley, sir. The thing is the car would cost you a lot of money anywhere else, particularly one with this history and such a low mileage, but I’m prepared to let you have it for five hundred and sixty pounds, plus commission.’
Waldo frowned. ‘I can’t accept that, I’m afraid, Mr Sykes.’
‘I understand, sir—’
‘I can’t accept that for the simple reason that you can’t be making enough money on that deal. That is sheer economic lunacy, besides being appalling business.’
‘You asked me to find you a car, sir—’
‘The deal didn’t include cutting your own throat. Look, what I propose to do – if the car is as good as you say I propose to pay you what you and the car deserve. I shall pay you one thousand pounds and that will include your commission. As long as the car is as described. If it isn’t, then woe betide you. Now, have we a deal, young man?’
Peter looked at his client with renewed anxiety, only to find with relief that Waldo Astley was still smiling and was now holding out a hand to be shaken on the deal.
‘Mr Astley sir—’
‘If you’re not going to take it, Peter, then I shall leave it. That is my final offer, so take it or leave it.’
‘But, but it isn’t right, Mr Astley. It isn’t right at all.’
‘So, tell me what’s so wrong about it, will you?’
‘You’re paying me too much.’
‘Isn’t that my business?’ Waldo laughed good-humouredly.
‘I know – yes, I’m sure you’re right, sir – but the point is—’
‘The point is, my dear fellow, you have told me what you want for the car and I have told you what I am prepared to pay for the car. Is that not how car dealers do business with their customers? Is not that the way you do business? You name your price, I name mine, and we agree a sum. So all we are waiting for here is for you to agree the sum.’
‘I’m not sure I can, really I’m not.’
‘Then you will never do well in life. If you refuse this, you will always do badly.’
‘I don’t see why,’ Peter replied stubbornly.
‘Because that is the way of the world. This is your last chance, friend. My offer stays valid for one more minute – after that I won’t even pay you a penny for the car. But if you accept my offer, I promise you I shall make it doubly worth your while.’
‘But you haven’t even seen the car, sir. It isn’t as if you know the model either. You’ll be buying something blind – something you’ll be paying miles over the odds for – something whose value you can never hope to recover.’
‘Thirty seconds,’ Waldo merely replied, looking at his watch.
‘I think I must be dreaming.’
Waldo continued counting. ‘Twenty-five, four, three, two—’
‘Yes, all right, I agree!’ Peter suddenly yelled, startling those drinking near their corner table. At which Waldo put his head back and, removing his cigar from his mouth, roared with laughter.
‘My dear fellow! For one awful minute I thought you weren’t going to make it!’
‘You wanted me to agree?’
‘Of course I wanted you to agree! What kind of game did you think I was playing? Now – when we have finished our drinks you can take me and show me the car, which I imagine you already have locked up in that garage of yours – and provided it is as good as you describe I shall pay you cash, there and then.’
‘It’s actually better than I say it is, Mr Astley.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
‘You have no idea, sir, what this money will mean to us. To Mrs Sykes and me.’
‘Of course I don’t,’ Waldo replied with a smile. ‘I have absolutely no idea at all.’
‘That was a stupid thing to say, sir. Sorry.’
‘You will be able to do everything you had been hoping to do except maybe a few years sooner. And when you throw another five hundred into the kitty—’
‘Another five hundred, Mr Astley? But why?’
‘Because we’re going to join forces.’ Waldo smiled, but this time the smile was for himself, as he remembered Rusty the night he and Gloria had caught her in Gloria’s house, and the state she was in both then and particularly afterwards.
‘Astley and Sykes. I like the sound of that, Peter,’ Waldo said. ‘How about you? Astley and Sykes. Who knows – it might even become a hallmark of quality.’
The look on Peter Sykes’s face was one that Waldo wished that he could have captured on a camera. But, then again, like so much in life, perhaps it would be even better left as a glorious memory.