Barry returned the cigar to his mouth, sucked so his cheeks were hollow and his eyes more prominent than ever. Michael waited in silence. “Keith Mantel’s trying to raise money for an inflatable,” Barry said at last. “For inshore work. Anglers stranded on the mud banks. Kids who get out of their depth swimming.” The mention of Mantel was mischievous. On top of everything else the landlord was a stirrer. He wanted to see what sort of reaction he could provoke.
Michael sipped his pint, seemed to consider before replying. “Makes sense. It’d be quicker to launch. Cheaper to run. More use in the shallows. Keith’s still a leading light on the committee then?” Keith. As if they were mates. Bosom pals.
“They’d never survive without his fundraising.”
They managed before he turned up here, Michael thought, but he only nodded in agreement. “You need someone to look after the money side.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” Barry said sharply, stung by the lack of response. “I thought you couldn’t stand the man.”
“Aye, well. Maybe I’ve learned a bit of sense in my old age.”
“He’s having a fundraiser at his house.” Barry was getting desperate. “I can sell you a ticket if you like.”
“I tell you what, Barry, let me have two. I think I’ll bring a friend.”
“You’re joking!”
“Not at all. It’s a good cause.”
Barry didn’t know what to say to that and plugged his mouth again with his cigar.
“Is Keith still living in the Old Chapel?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Veronica said cautiously. “He’s still there.”
“Everyone thought he’d move out after that tragedy with his daughter.” Barry tried another tack. Michael thought he was like one of those snidey kids there’d been in every class, the sort who’d pick away with jibes and insults until they got thumped. Then they’d burst into tears until the teacher came. “But he stayed on in the end. He said he needed the memories.”
“Aye, well,” Michael said. “I can understand that.” But his memories of Jeanie in their old house on the shore were unpleasant fights, sulky silences, shut doors with music like sobbing seeping out from under them. He envied Mantel his memories. “Does he live there on his own, or is there a woman?”
“Of course there’s a woman.” Barry chortled unpleasantly. Veronica gave him a warning look, which he ignored. “You’d not expect Keith to do without for long. This one’s called Deborah. Debs. An actress. Or so he says. Blonde. Nice tits. Young enough to be his daughter.”
Michael couldn’t help himself this time. “He always did like them young.”
Barry weighed this up seriously. “Not always,” he said. “He likes them tall, skinny. And he likes the lookers. But there have been a couple of older ones over the years.”
“You sound as if you’re talking about beasts at a market.” Veronica was unusually tetchy. She wasn’t given to feminism. The conversation had made her uncomfortable for other reasons. Michael thought she wasn’t as easily taken in by his conversion to the Keith Mantel fan club as Barry.
“How long has he been knocking around with this Debs?” Michael asked.
Barry looked at his wife for confirmation. “Six months? Something like that. She’s been hanging round the village all summer anyway. She must have been bored when Keith was at work. She spent a lot of time in here.”
“Is he in the same line of business?”
“I never knew what line of business that was. It’s not something you can pin him down on. Property. Leisure. That’s what he tells you. Could mean anything. We own the Anchor. So we’re in property and leisure too, when you come to think about it.” It seemed to be a point he’d made before. He thought it was clever, expected that to be acknowledged.
“You’re right.” Michael gave a little smile. “So you are.”
“Can I get you another pint?” Veronica asked. She had her back to him, returning some glasses, and spoke over her shoulder. The bra strap at the back was very thin. Only one catch, he reckoned. When he was young he’d have had that undone in seconds.
The third pint was tempting, but he shook his head. He had things to do. It struck him again how things had changed. He was walking away from a drink, and for the first time since Peg had died he had things to do.
“Best get back,” he said. “Don’t want to overdo things first time out.” He grinned to show he was joking, that there was nothing of the invalid about him. He pulled out his wallet from his jacket pocket. “Now, how much are these tickets for the lifeboat going to set me back?”
Barry slid off his stool and mooched into the back room to find the tickets. Veronica leaned right across the bar so he could smell the shampoo on her hair. She whispered, “You know what you’re doing, don’t you, love? You won’t make a scene?”
Before he could stop himself he reached out and patted the back of her hand, just as the little chaplain had done in the crematorium.
“Don’t worry about me. I know just what I’m doing.”
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning Michael woke very early again. The darkness was still thick and there was no traffic moving on the road outside. Today, he realized, he didn’t have to force himself to stay in bed. He could get up. He repeated the comforting mantra which he’d started in the pub. He had things to do. The things he had to do were still vague in his head, but that didn’t matter.
The clothes he’d taken off the night before were still folded on a chair at the end of his bed. Peg hadn’t been a house-proud woman, but she’d liked him neatly turned out. Her last couple of months, when she’d not been able to get out of bed, she’d worried about that. She’d pulled him close to her, made him listen to the rasping whisper. He’d thought it would be something important, significant, a declaration of love, and perhaps it had been in a way. Are you managing? With the washing and ironing? He’d taught himself to do it so she’d have less to fret about.
Now the memory made him think he might be running short of underpants. He gathered up the dirty washing from the basket in the bathroom and stuck it in the washing machine. A week ago the laundry would have been a full day’s occupation. He’d plan it in advance, sit in the kitchen watching his Y-fronts tumble around in the suddy water, feeling he was doing something useful. Today it was a chore to get out of the way. He had things to do.
He was hungry. Had he eaten the day before when he’d arrived back from the Anchor? He couldn’t remember. His head had been full of plans, his excitement fuelled by the whisky he’d finished off. Now he raided the fridge like a kid ravenous after a day at school, and fried up eggs, bacon, a few leftover cooked potatoes. He left the plate in the sink, already fidgety to be out, with no real idea of where he’d go. As he left the bungalow the church clock struck the three quarter hour. Seven forty-five. Still too early for all the things he’d planned the night before, but he couldn’t face going back inside.
The rain had stopped. He took the lane which led towards the estuary. The path was lit by widely spaced street lamps and the wet road underneath looked black and shiny like melted tar. On one side there was a row of brick cottages. Lights were on now and an occasional sound a door slamming, a burst of the radio -escaped to be tossed away by the wind. On the other side were fields with rough grazing and a few sheep. He couldn’t see the sheep but he knew they were there. He could hear them moving. The fields were separated from the lane by a stone wall and he walked briskly against the wind until he came to a break in it. There were no more houses now. He’d reached the edge of the village.
The gap in the wall was blocked by a gate and he thought for a moment that it might be locked and that he’d be forced to scramble over it. He’d been here before but only in daylight. Late afternoon, usually,