‘Come in,’ the nightwatchman invited. ‘The phone’s on the wall. You’ll have to pay for it, of course.’
‘Mm.’ I nodded assent, felt for wallet and coins, and found neither. Nothing in any of my pockets. The nightwatchman observed the search judiciously.
‘Have you been mugged?’
‘It looks like it.’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No.’ I looked at the telephone. ‘I can reverse the charges,’ I said.
He made an assenting wave. I took the receiver off the wall and realised that if I phoned my own house what I would get would be my answering machine. It was possible to de-activate it from a distance but not on a reverse charge call. Sighing, I got through to the number, listened to my voice saying I was out and to leave a message, and went through the switch-off routine. The nightwatchman asked crossly what I was doing.
‘Getting the operator,’ I said, redialling.
The operator tried my number and said there was no answer.
‘Please keep trying,’ I said anxiously. ‘I know someone’s there, but she’ll be asleep. You need to wake her.’
Lizzie’s bedroom was next to mine, where the phone would be ringing. I exhorted her silently to wake up, to tire of the ringing, to get up and answer it. Come on, Lizzie... come on for God’s sake.
Ages seemed to pass before she finally said, ‘Hello?’ thick with sleep. The operator, following my instructions, asked if she would take a call from her brother, Mr Croft, in Southampton.
When she spoke to me direct she said, astonished, ‘Roger? Is that you? I thought you were in the Caribbean.’
‘It’s Freddie,’ I said.
‘But you can’t be in Southampton. Roger’s ship goes to Southampton.’
Explaining was impossible, and besides, the nightwatchman was listening avidly to every word.
‘Lizzie,’ I said desperately, ‘come and collect me. I’ve been robbed of money... everything. I’ve been in the water and I’m freezing and I hit my head, and to be honest I feel rotten. Come in the Fourtrak, it’s outside on the tarmac. The key’s on a hook beside the back door. Please do come.’
‘Heavens! Come where?’
‘Go to the main road to Newbury, but turn south. That’s the A34. It joins the Winchester bypass. Then follow the signs to Southampton and when you get there take the road to the Docks and the Isle of Wight ferries. There are signs everywhere. I’m... I’m down there by the Docks. The Isle of Wight ferry terminal is just along the road. I’ll go there... and wait for you.’
She said, ‘Are you shivering?’
I coughed convulsively. ‘Bring me some clothes. And some money.’
‘Freddie...’ She sounded shocked and unsure.
‘I know,’ I said contritely, ‘it’s the middle of the night. It’ll take you three-quarters of an hour, about...’
‘But what happened? I thought you were here in bed, but you didn’t answer the phone. How did you get to Southampton?’
‘I don’t know. Look, Lizzie, just come.’
She made up her mind. ‘Isle of Wight ferry. Southampton Docks. Forty-five minutes. Five more while I dress. Just hang in there, buddy boy. The cavalry’s coming.’
‘The cinema has a lot to answer for.’
‘At least your sense of humour’s still working.’
‘It’s a close run thing.’
‘I’ll be there,’ she said, and put down the phone.
I thanked the nightwatchman and told him my sister would come. He thought I should have telephoned the police.
‘I’d rather go home,’ I said, and realised I simply hadn’t thought of asking for police help. That would involve too many questions and I had not enough answers. And also not enough stamina left for sitting on a hard chair in a police station, or for having my bumps read. The source of my troubles lay not in Southampton but back in Pixhill, and if the transit from one to the other was wholly a blank, I did vaguely remember driving the Jaguar to the farmyard and calling to Harve.
The troubles lay on my doorstep, in my farmyard, under my lorries, in my business. I wanted to go home, to sort them out.
Chapter 7
Lizzie, true to form, came to rescue her little brother.
The nightwatchman let me spend most of the wait in his under-heated guard room, even going so far as to brew me a cup of tea to alleviate my shivers, all under the baleful eyes of his attentive dog. When the hands of the clock on his wall stood at two, he said I’d have to leave as it was time for his rounds, so I thanked him and walked... well, shambled... along the road to the ferry terminal and sat in shadow on the pavement there at one end of the building, my spine against the wall, my arms hugging my knees. I’d known worse conditions, just.
Not far away, on the other side of an openwork metal fence, light glinted on water. I looked at the scene vaguely, then with speculation. I suppose there were many places like that, where in darkness semi-conscious people could be slid into the briny with nobody noticing. There were miles of available shoreline in Southampton Docks.
The Fourtrak came, slowed, moved hesitantly into the parking area and stopped. I stood up, pressing against the wall for support, and took a few paces forward into the light. Lizzie saw me and came running from the vehicle, stopping dead a few feet from me, wide-eyed and shocked.
‘Freddie!’
‘I can’t look as bad as all that,’ I protested.
She didn’t tell me how I looked. She came and draped one of my arms over her shoulders and walked with me to the Fourtrak.
‘Take off that wet jacket,’ she commanded. ‘You’ll die of exposure.’
Marginally better than drowning, I thought, though I didn’t say so.
Once inside the butty little vehicle I struggled out of all the wet things and put on the dry substitutes, including fleece-lined boots and the warmest padded jacket I owned. When Lizzie coped she did nothing by halves.
I got her to drive as near the guardroom as we could manage. The nightwatchman and his dog were at home again and issued forth suspiciously. When I offered him money for the first telephone call and for his trouble and kindness he at first refused it with indignation, raising one’s regard for the salt of the British earth.
‘Take it,’ I urged, ‘I owe you. Drink to my health.’
He took the note dubiously, only half concealing his pleasure.
‘You’ll get pneumonia anyway, shouldn’t wonder,’ he said.
The way I felt, he might well be right.
Lizzie drove back home the way she’d come, darting glances at me every few seconds. The cold-induced shudders and shakes gradually abated in my body until eventually even my guts felt warmed again, but conversely along with warmth came overwhelming tiredness so that all I wanted was to lie down and sleep.
‘But what happened?’ Lizzie asked.
‘I went to the farmyard.’
‘You said you were going to close the gates,’ she said, nodding.
‘Did I? Well... someone hit me on the head.’
‘Freddie! Who?’
‘Don’t know. When I woke up I was being dropped into water. Just as well I did wake up, really.’
She was predictably horrified. ‘They meant you to drown!’
‘I don’t know about that.’ I’d been puzzled ever since I’d been conscious. ‘If they wanted me dead, why not finish the job on my head? Why take me all the way to Southampton Docks? If they wanted particularly to drown me, there’s a perfectly good pond in Pixhill.’