Cherringham--Last Train to London (2 page)

Outside, in the sweet-scented garden, the man waited until the bedroom light went off and then, taking care to stay in the shadows, moved quietly across the lawn away from the house.

In the soft light of the moon, he could see his footsteps in the wet grass – dark tell-tale patches.

But that is not a problem. They will melt away long before the old man wakes,
he thought.

All had gone well. There had been no dog. He had managed to avoid the security lights. The locks had obeyed the tools that he carried with him. The old man had not woken until after the job had been done. And he had executed the task to the best of his ability.

Executed.
Yes …

Now he must wait until the fuss blew over – for there would be a fuss, of that he was certain.

Then he would tidy up, and go home with no one the wiser. And then, finally, this long journey would be over.

He turned his back on the house, climbed the wire fence and made his way along the side of the ploughed field, up the hill towards a small copse.

The night was so quiet.

At the copse, he dragged his old sports bag from under a pile of leaves, took out the sleeping bag inside and made himself comfortable. He would sleep until dawn. Nobody would see him here. But from where he lay, he could see right across the valley.

Down below, the old man’s cottage was quiet. Beyond it, further down the hill, spread a valley of fields, misty in the moonlight. He could just make out the silver ribbon of the Thames meandering across the fields, a little line of boats moored upon it.

And to one side the village – small town, really – of Cherringham, fast asleep. He pulled his sleeping bag up to his neck – and then he slept too.

“Okay. What’s the point of winning coconuts anyway?” asked Jack. “Aside from making piña coladas, that is.”

Sarah pointed to the corner of the coconut-shy and Jack dutifully stacked his box of coconuts on top of the others.

“It’s a tradition, Jack,” she said. “Like your turkeys at Thanksgiving, Easter Parade. It’s what we do here.”

Jack tilted his head, looking entirely sceptical.

“Well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Trust me,” said Sarah. “Now, Daniel – grab the hoops and show Jack how to set them up, would you?”

She watched as her son – now a two-year veteran of the Cherringham Primary School Summer Fête – headed off with Jack to the car to get the heavy iron hoops and the mallet.

Hectic as it always was, the fête was still one of the high points of Sarah’s year, when the village put on its best face and she felt genuinely happy to be out of London and back into country life.

For some reason that she couldn’t quite remember, she’d been handed the coconut-shy to organise a couple of years ago, and it had just been assumed then that she’d always manage it.

More tradition in action, she realised.

Her daughter Chloe had come along last year to help – but this year she had reached the age where a primary school fête had become seriously uncool. Sarah, on the other hand, loved the whole day. The smell of the freshly cut grass, the bustle of parents and teachers racing the clock to get the fête ready, the excitement of kids free at last from the school year with the summer holidays stretching ahead of them …

“I thought we’d push for two pounds a go this year, Sarah, what do you think?” came a voice from behind her which she instantly recognised. “We so desperately need the money!”

Sarah turned. Mrs Harper, the headmistress, stood frowning, uncertain. Loved by all the kids, but hopelessly disorganised, Mrs Harper was a throwback to a time in education when management skills came second to passion.

“Or is it too much? Yes, it’s probably too much. A pound? Or perhaps one pound fifty? What do you think?” she said.

“Why don’t we charge a pound,” said Sarah, smiling. “But offer three for the price of two?”

“Brilliant!” said Mrs Harper. “Like at the supermarket – buy one get one free. Bogof – isn’t that what they say? Or should that be b-t-gof? Hmm. Anyway, must crack on – there’s a row brewing on the white elephant stall and I’m told they need a peacemaker.”

And off she strode towards the line of little white stalls which lined the playing field.

With an hour to go before the fête opened, Sarah could see it was all coming together. The dog-show arena was up – and the PA caravan already pumping out music. The ice-cream van was open. The merry-go-round for the little ones had started spinning, and the bouncy castle was fully inflated and ready for action; a splash of orange against the bright blue summer sky.

On the patch just opposite the coconut-shy, Sarah could see the local fire engine all set for a display and – talk of tradition! – old Mr Brendl was putting the final touches to his Punch and Judy stall. In fact – she suddenly realised – the only stall which didn’t look ready was her own …

Where were her workers?

On cue, Daniel and Jack appeared from around the back of the stall, finishing what looked like two very large ice-creams. Jack grinned sheepishly at her.

“Daniel here was just introducing me to the 99,” he said. “An ice-cream with a stick of chocolate in it. This would
kill
back in the States. You Brits sure know how to live.”

“We know how to work too,” she said. “Now pick up that mallet, soldier, and get hammering.”

*

Jack tugged another piece of pink cotton candy from his stick and popped it in his mouth. ‘Candy floss’ they called it here – which was kinda ironic since you’d definitely need to floss your teeth after eating it.

As soon as he’d finished setting up the coconut stand – the ‘shy’ they said – Sarah had suggested that he go explore the fête, check out all the offerings. And as someone who had taken his own daughter to so many tacky church carnivals, a lot was similar.

But then – a lot wasn’t.

White Elephants, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, sure. But then – ‘Welly Wanging’? Really? And something called ‘Tombola’ – kind of a raffle. There were things going on here he could hardly describe, let alone understand …

“Mr Brennan!”

Jack turned, to see Tony Standish at one of the little stalls.

“Hey, hello, Tony,” said Jack. “They got you roped in too, huh?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, old boy,” said Tony.

Jack had come to consider Tony – a Cherringham solicitor and an old friend of Sarah’s family – a friend as well.

“Care for a ‘lucky dip’?” he said, gesturing to a large container filled with slips of paper. “Three tickets for a pound. If your number ends with a nought or a five, it gets you one of these fantastic prizes!”

Jack inspected the table, filled with candies, bottles of wine, chocolates, mysterious packets of English cakes and the grand prize: a quart of whisky.

Raffles and prizes – now
that
Jack could understand.

“Sure,” he said. “I’m feeling lucky today.”

He handed over his pound, reached in and pulled out three tickets. Tony took them and opened them up one at a time.

“No … no …” said Tony, dramatically opening up each ticket. “Yes! We have a winner, ladies and gentleman! Lucky number 405!”

Tony had missed his calling. He would have made a great barker!

Jack checked the table. Was it the whisky? The wine?

Tony handed him a small packet of chocolate biscuits.

“Wagon wheels!” Tony said. “How perfectly appropriate!”

“You don’t say,” said Jack, looking at the wagon train image on the front of the pack. “Guess pardner, it’s time I hit the trail …”

He put the packet in his pocket, said his thanks to Tony and headed back towards the coconut-shy.

At first, it seemed that Sarah had quite a crowd ready to play – but in fact most people were watching a ladder display by the Cherringham firemen. And over by the Punch and Judy stall, a sea of kids were already sitting with their mums and dads on the ground, impatiently waiting for the first performance of the day. Seemed like it was showtime but the show hadn’t begun.

In fact, the coconut-shy had no customers at all. Sarah stood by the boxes of coconuts while Daniel was half-heartedly throwing balls at the hoops.

“Just in time,” said Sarah. “We need things shaking up a bit here, Jack – we’ve only taken about ten pounds so far.”

“You ever thought that maybe you should give out prizes, not coconuts?” said Jack.

“Don’t be silly,
everybody
loves coconuts. They just need to know how easy it is to win.”

“And Mum says you’re going to show them,” said Daniel.

“Oh, really?” said Jack.

“Absolutely,” said Sarah. “You’re going to bring some all-American chutzpah to the whole thing. World Series atmosphere. Razzamatazz. Hullabaloo.”

She handed him five of the heavy wooden balls.

“It’s just like baseball. But without the helmets.”

“What if I don’t play baseball?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen the films.
All
Americans play baseball.”

Jack looked at the metal hoops and the coconuts stuck in each one.

“That’s a pound by the way, Jack.”

“And this – is coercion.”

“I prefer to call it donating to a good cause,” said Sarah with a grin.

“You’re going to owe me for this,” he said, shaking his head.

But Jack knew he had no choice. He walked over to the little paint mark on the grass and inspected the wooden balls.

When was the last time he’d pitched a ball?

His mind ran back to the local Little League field back in Bay Ridge. He and Katherine used to help out with the coaching when their daughter played. Sometimes it seemed like the games were more for the parents than the kids.

They certainly brought everyone together.

The memory – now, here – suddenly alive, suddenly too close. Imagining his wife on those sunny golden days before she got ill …

Time to throw the ball,
he thought.

Without a warm-up, this could hurt.

“Go Jack!”

From nowhere Daniel had gathered a bunch of his pals to watch – they cheered, jumping up and down. And Sarah mysteriously had conjured up some of her village friends who began clapping.

Jack had a sneaky feeling he’d been set up – but there was no escape. He had to throw and make it good. Anything else would be un-American!

He looked at the targets and picked the coconut that looked most likely to pop out of its hoop. Then, playing to the crowd, he went into his old pitching routine – funny how it came back after all these years – staring at the ground, rocking gently on his heels, winding up the energy, then bringing his arm back, ready to release and —

A scream from behind him cut through all the noise of the fête.

Harsh, full of fear, of horror – instantly recognisable as real.

This wasn’t someone playing about.

Jack turned and dropped the ball.

Across the grass at the Punch and Judy stall, parents stumbled to their feet, grabbing children, hurrying away. The screams kept filling the air – made more horrifying on such a beautiful summer’s day.

His eyes focused on the Punch and Judy stall, its red-and-white striped curtains still tightly drawn.

A woman stood to the side of the little stand-up theatre, arms limp. Her face blank with shock; eyes wide, mouth open, breathing fast.

Her eyes locked on what lay at her feet.

And Jack now knew why she had been screaming.

The head and shoulders of a man were visible, sprawling out from the stall, motionless, eyes wide open. As soon as Jack saw him he knew it meant only one thing.

Immediately his old training kicked in. When other people ran away, Jack ran
towards
…

Behind him he heard Sarah telling Daniel to stay back. Then as he pushed through the retreating crowd and approached the stall, he felt her come level with him, reaching out for the woman.

As Sarah drew the woman gently back, he knelt down by the man on the ground, the Punch and Judy puppeteer wearing a satiny costume of red and blue.

His right hand was inside the puppet Punch, ready for the show – its cheeks painted rosy, eyes glinting and a broad grin carved into the plaster of its face stretching from ear to ear.

Jack moved fast. The man wasn’t breathing. There was no pulse …

Jack’s hands went to his chest and he began pressing.

The puppeteer’s eyes remained glassy and unresponsive. His thin wispy white hair rustled as Jack pressed rhythmically on his chest. The man’s glasses lay beside him, crushed by the fall. His eyes remained wide open.

Then – a detail, even as Jack kept up his rhythm.

The man’s teeth were clenched tight, as if he’d been in extreme pain – and on his lips were flecks of foam.

 “Heart attack?” said Sarah, now kneeling next to him. “Someone’s gone for a defibrillator.”

Jack looked up, ready to say …
might be too late for that
. Instead, noticing her face, he said:

“Could be, don’t know how long he hasn’t been breathing.”

Jack quickly removed the puppet from the man’s hand then straightened his body. He tilted the man’s head back making sure that the airway was clear and then clamped his fingers tight onto the old man’s nose and started mouth to mouth.

He counted the breaths, then pulled back so Sarah could continue the CPR, applying pressure to the chest.

He looked up — a small crowd had formed around them.

“Need an ambulance, fast,” he said firmly. “This isn’t doing … and where is the …?”

Jack had been with people – some in the line of duty – who had slipped away before his eyes. That moment always seemed like the one thing he couldn't accept.

A moment when he could do nothing.

Then one of the firemen hurriedly squatted next to Jack and Sarah and folded open a portable defibrillator. Jack paused his mouth to mouth.

“Shirt?” he said to the fireman, who nodded as he pulled the cables from the defibrillator box. If there was the slightest chance at all, they had only seconds.

Sarah drew back as Jack pulled open the man’s collar, and then ripped open the shirt, tearing the fabric back. The fireman passed the sticky pads to him, and Jack pressed one high on the man’s chest, the other lower down on the other side.