Against the Tide (6 page)

A crimson flush suffused Phillips' face. His mouth opened and closed like a starving fish before he found the words he needed. ‘I suppose you find that amusing, but I can now add insulting behaviour and one case of indecent exposure to your catalogue of crimes.'

‘We were merely following your orders, sir. I did get you to confirm them.'

Phillips thumped his fist onto the metal desk, scattering paperweights, pens and paper onto the floor. ‘How dare you. You insolent, stupid boy! Take your scabbards off your belts and get dressed before I have you thrown into the cells. Help them, man, don't just stand there!'

The poor constable's officer collected the bayonets and laid them carefully on the desk while we pulled up our trousers and re-buckled our belts. We were in deep manure, but I didn't care anymore. I glared at Phillips, determined to find out about the fight he'd had with my father. I fought an urge to grab my bayonet and stick it up his fat arse, but I'd just have to dream on for the moment. He glared back then turned to his clerk, who was biting his lip, clearly trying to suppress a giggle or two. ‘The charges, please.'

The man coughed, and in a dry voice, just on the right side of hysterical, read out the list of complaints from various members of the public. There was no mention of the Dutchman. In the excitement, he had been overlooked.

Phillips listened, made notes and showed his disbelief. He tapped his pen on the desk, weighing his words. I expected a gale of outrage but was surprised when he spoke softly.

‘I will need to consult with the constable on this before I summon your parents and your headmaster. This sort of behaviour has to be stamped on firmly and I do not wish any
technicality,'
he stared directly at me as he stressed the word, ‘to influence the correct course of action. However, I will say this. If I were your parents, I would thrash you until you begged forgiveness and, if I were your headmaster, I would seriously question your right to wear those uniforms.'

He let his final words hang in the air then stood up and nodded to the clerk. ‘Dismissed, for further reports.'

‘But, sir. Don't you want to hear our side of the…' I spluttered at his retreating back as he waddled out of the room.

Alan and the others bounced out into the street. I followed more thoughtfully. To Alan it was all a huge joke. He didn't realise how vindictive someone like Phillips could be. At best, there would be serious embarrassment for the family. At worst, we could all be expelled or even birched, or both, and all because of my bloody-minded former girlfriend.

Released into the sunshine and the clatter of traffic at the busy intersection, the remnants of our honour guard could contain themselves no longer. They slumped against the ornate granite wall, their chests heaving with laughter.

‘Well, I think my clever brother should treat us all to some grub and an espresso. You lot coming?' Alan had brushed down his uniform and was admiring his reflection in the arched window.

I tugged some coins from my pocket. ‘Here, you treat them. I'm not in the mood.'

‘Oh, I suppose you're going off to mope about your bloody girlfriend. Come on, man, forget the bitch. Come and drown your sorrows in some of Luigi's finest.'

‘No, thanks. I'll just wander about a bit… perhaps pop in for a cup of tea with Uncle Fred.'

‘What, “Red” Fred? You bonkers or something, man? He'll bore the pants off you. Besides, if Dad finds out, he'll lose a wheel. You know how he feels about him.' Alan seemed horrified. Our mother's elder and only living brother had been disowned by the family, not only for his extreme politics, but also for the fact that he was living in sin with a Spanish woman at least twenty years his junior.

‘I'll take the chance. Meet you at Snow Hill at six and, Alan…'

‘Yeah?'

‘Don't forget to pack tonight. I'll get you up at half-five and down to the boat by half-six. I'm training at seven so I'm not going to wait for you.'

‘Okay, Mummy.'

The others laughed.

‘And, Alan, try not to get arrested again if you can possibly help it.'

He chased me across the road and halfway up Old Street, studded boots echoing off the walls, before he collided with a pram, which appeared from a doorway. He tumbled into the gutter, much to the amusement of the cadets, who had trotted after him.

While he apologised to the startled woman, I turned into Union Street. Stopping outside one of the three-storied terraced houses, less dilapidated than its eighteenth-century neighbours, I knocked on the blood-red front door.

7

Malita peered at my uniform. She wore no make-up and her thick black hair, pulled back in a tight bun, pinched an already tired face into a caricature of resentment. It softened when she saw my face.

‘Yak,
buenos tardes
. Come in, you are most welcome.' Her voice was much deeper than her slender figure suggested and heavy with a Spanish accent. However hard she tried, she couldn't pronounce my name, so I was forever a hefty Siberian ox to her Spanish tongue. She hugged and kissed me on both cheeks then, with a broad wink, ushered me into the kitchen.

Rachel looked up and laughed at my startled expression. ‘Don't worry, I'm just about to leave.'

‘Nonsense, you stay, talk to Yak. You say you have thing to tell him.'

Rachel's face reddened.

‘Not now, Malita. I have to go. My parents will be expecting their tea.'

‘Ah, you too soft with them. They have hands. They make own food.' She sounded exasperated as though this was an old argument, often repeated.

‘Why aren't you two at work?' I asked.

‘We're surprised as well. They closed the workroom so we could watch the ship arrive. I suppose we'll have to make the time up later. You looked very smart, Jack,' Rachel answered as she got up and held her chair for me.

I brushed against her as I moved to sit down. The chair was warm from her body and a faint scent, more simple than Caroline's exotic perfumes, hung in the air. She looked tired and her eyes were puffy, as though she had been crying. I knew that she and Malita worked together in the dressmaking department at de Gruchys, but hadn't realised they were this close. I felt like I'd broken into an intimate conversation. Malita led her to the door.

She paused and smiled back at me. ‘I would like to speak to you sometime, Jack. It's not important though. When you have a moment…' her voice tailed off as she turned away.

I was intrigued. We'd been friends for years but she'd never spoken like that before, as though she were frightened of me. What had I done? Should I go after her? I got up as I heard the front door close.

Malita blocked my way. ‘Not for now, Yak. She need time, alone.' She shrugged and motioned me to sit. Grabbing a ladle from the range, she banged it against one of the copper pans hanging above. Once they'd stopped reverberating, I heard movement from the basement, followed by footfalls on the wooden steps. Uncle Fred, wearing overalls, covered in sawdust, appeared from the passageway.

‘Jack,
coumme est qu' tu'es ?
' He limped over and grasped me on both shoulders. ‘
I, y,a Iongtemps qu, je n,vos avais pon veu.'

It hadn't been that long but I had neglected them since Caroline had returned from her travels. I had brought her round to meet them. I wouldn't repeat that mistake.

‘Tch'est qu'en s'ait d'eune tassee d'thee?'
Fred motioned me to sit at the pine table while Malita turned to the kettle.

‘Yes, please, Uncle, if you're having one.' I watched as Malita rattled the teapot out of the cupboard.

‘Well, young man, what have you been up to then – playing at soldiers?' In sharp contrast to his use of our Jèrriais language, Fred's English accent was guaranteed to raise eyebrows, if not hackles. It was pure home counties, languid yet piercing, its contorted vowels a superb counterfeit of the aristocratic disdain which he so despised. He derived great amusement from mimicking his “class” enemy.

‘Doing one's duty, Uncle.' I put on my own best accent.

Fred's lined face creased into a wide grin. ‘From the look of you, not a labour of love, I vow.'

‘It was a bit hot, Uncle, in fact, someone had to jump into the harbour to cool off.'

I told the story while Malita served the tea, reducing both of them to fits with my impersonation of Phillips.

‘You need to be careful, Jack. His self-importance has cleansed his veins of any dint of kindness. Like all bullies, he's vulnerable to ridicule and won't forgive anyone who bests him.'

‘He's married, isn't he?' I asked.

‘Yes, poor Doris. She's the living proof that love is indeed blind.' Fred chuckled.

‘Do they have any children?'

He peered at me. ‘Interesting question, Jack. What prompted that?'

‘Well I was talking to Nutty about him –'

‘Hedley Pallot? And what did the old gossip have to say?'

‘Not much but he did hint at a few things.'

He smiled. ‘I bet he did. Did he tell you that Phillips does a lot of charity work with children?'

‘Why?'

‘
Entre nous,
and not to be repeated. He was posted to Palestine, caught something nasty – probably from a camel. Can't have any children of his own.'

‘And that should make me feel sorry for him?'

‘Perhaps. It changed him. He used to be a bit wild but now he's obsessed with rules, hence the refereeing and busybody policing. He's always been a bit of a loner but he's stubborn and well-connected, though not overly blessed with intelligence. That makes him potentially dangerous.'

‘He didn't go to college, did he?'

‘No. Not enough brains and the family didn't have the money. That's something else that grates on him.'

I sucked in a breath. ‘What do you know about a fight he had with Father?'

He stared at me, measuring how much I knew, then laughed. ‘Where did you hear that?'

‘Oh, at the club. Is it true?'

‘Hedley again, I suppose. I'm afraid you'll have to ask your father about that.'

‘Oh, come on, Uncle, spill the beans.'

He considered for a moment. ‘Alright, but you didn't hear it from me. Which fight are you talking about?'

‘There's more than one?'

‘Oh, yes. Your father isn't a forgiving person either.'

Didn't I know that. ‘The one during the water polo match. The one over the girl.'

He coughed and sprayed tea over the table. ‘My sister, you mean?'

‘Oh, God. Not my mother? She didn't, you know, with Phillips?'

‘No, no. Phillips let his interest be known, as they say, and Mary used that to encourage your father to be more forceful. He was very shy then. Phillips misread her interest and thought Aubin was trying to steal her. They had words, which turned into fists. It was very embarrassing at the time. The committee had to sit in judgement and banned them both from competitions for a couple of weeks. Sound familiar, Jack?'

How did he know? Of course, Rachel must have told them. ‘Was there another fight?'

‘Yes, but you'll need to ask your father about that. I wasn't there and no one else saw it. I heard that Phillips' face looked as though it had been used to mop the sawdust off the floor in his butcher's shop.'

‘Did Father fight with him there?'

‘No, that was me. I was trying to persuade one of his employees to join the union. Phillips found out and sacked him. I confronted him in the shop. I was arrested.' From his tone, it wasn't a pleasant memory. ‘I'll get even one day, when he isn't hiding behind the parish police.' He smiled to hide the bitterness in his voice. ‘Anyway, what are you going to do about the fragrant Caroline?'

‘Apart from give her another bath you mean?'

They laughed.

‘Not much I can do. I've messed up there. It's not all her fault. In fact, I think I've behaved like a pig.'

‘“Chein q'nou n'
a
jamais veu, et jamais n'vairra, ch'est un nid d'souothis dans I'ouotheille d'un cat.”'

I translated, ‘What one has never seen, and will never see, is a mouse's nest in a cat's ear. Is that right?'

‘Exactly. Mistress Caroline has you by the nose, young man. You must find her company very…' a strange smile flickered across his face, as though a distant memory had been disturbed. He paused, searching for the right word. ‘Stimulating.'

‘He is lucky young man, she is strong and honest lady. I like.' Malita beamed at me. ‘I like also much Rachel. Is difficult choice, no?' Her grin widened. I felt my cheeks colour.

‘What do you mean, Malita?'

She laughed and turned to Fred. ‘He is, how you say, making a pull of my leg, no?'

Fred chortled. ‘No, Lita. He doesn't understand what you mean.'

‘Si, Yak, you come here. Look in mirror.'

Amused, I followed her round the table and stood in front of the tarnished mirror. ‘You look and tell what is you see.'

‘Humour her, Jack.'

‘Okay, I see my mother's curls, though they need a cut. Uncle Fred's broken nose.' I ducked as a lump of cake flew towards me. I scrutinised my face. ‘My father's eyes, without the wrinkles of course. A chin in need of a shave, some cuts from this morning's hurried effort –'

‘What else, Yak?' Malita moved closer to me.

‘Dusty uniform, too small round the shoulders, collar too tight.' I turned to her. ‘What am I looking for?'

Fred laughed. ‘I think she means that you might have a problem with girls, Jack.'

‘Problem, you say
problem
. Is no problem for him. Is, how you say, big battle for girls.' She grinned, teasing me, digging her hand into my curls.

‘That's nonsense, Malita. I think I'm quite shy.'