Maxwell's Retirement (16 page)

Mrs Troubridge, waiting in her hallway, had gone to sleep on her hard chair where she usually put the Maxwells’ accumulated post. She muttered and twitched and woke herself up and dropped back off again, but all too late to realise that her vigil was now pointless. All the Maxwells were present and accounted for and soon would all be fast asleep in their beds.

Mornings in the Maxwell house were always the most stressful time of the day. Jacquie and Maxwell were not morning people, or night people, nor even midday people – they were twenty-four-hour, round-the-clock people. Jacquie had always had the knack of waking instantly as soon as she had to, whether it was to answer the phone, the door, the alarm clock or a call of nature. Nolan had never had to cry as a baby; the first indrawn breath would have one of his feather-light-sleeping parents at his bedside.

So it seemed cruel and ironic to them that they had seemed to fuse their genetic material in such a way that their son was a curmudgeonly grump when he woke up. It didn’t last long, and it had no bearing what time this happened. He always burrowed under the covers in search of just five more minutes. They had got into the habit of taking it in turns to wake him up and, Jacquie
having taken the brunt of the bruising aftermath, it was Maxwell’s turn this time.

It was a testament to the thought he had given to his paintballing clothes that Nolan had hopped out of bed without a murmur and was sitting at the breakfast table, mutely spooning in the Coco Pops without taking his eyes off the vision.

Maxwell was also sitting spooning in the Coco Pops. He didn’t usually eat cereal, but he had heard that carbohydrates were essential before physical activity and he wanted to be prepared. He was also having scrambled egg on toast with bacon and was hydrating with water rather than coffee. Jacquie was preparing his eggs, but kept stopping to leave the room and laugh hysterically on the landing. He was a rather arresting sight, dressed in camouflage from top to toe, and with random black stripes on his face to break up the outline. The black lines were to have been shoe polish, but Jacquie said, between hiccoughs, that it might make him come out in a rash, so he had compromised with eyeliner. He had sunscreen on his nose and lips, rapidly being rubbed off by breakfast and his nose rubbing, caused by the odd feeling of having sunscreen on it. He didn’t have a camouflage hat, so was wearing his usual
pork-pie
, complete with bedraggled fishing fly in the band. For once, the feather looked at home.

Jacquie controlled herself long enough to speak. ‘Is this get-up compulsory?’

‘I understand from Helen’s email,’ he paused to give the phrase its full significance, ‘that dress code is optional. We can wear any casual clothing we wish. Since my pelisse, dolman and overalls are in the wash momentarily,’ he swept a hand down the length of his body to draw attention to his outfit, ‘this is what I wish to wear.’ He looked at Nolan and leant forward, raising an eyebrow. ‘Nolan likes it, don’t you, mate?’

His reward was a spray of flying brown cereal. ‘Leave those in your hair,’ Jacquie advised. ‘It breaks up the outline.’ She turned away and gave the eggs a cursory stir. Her shoulders were shaking. She gave a small cough and collected herself. ‘Why did I not know about this until this morning?’ she asked.

‘A reasonable question,’ he said, buttering some toast to fill the gap before the bacon was frazzled enough. ‘I didn’t know until last night. No, that’s not quite right. I should have known, but it came in one of Legs’s email memo things ages ago and I didn’t read it. Helen reminded me last night. In an email.’

‘That woman has a sense of humour all right,’ Jacquie smiled.

Maxwell looked thoughtful. ‘That’s true.’ He brightened up. ‘She’ll get a nice surprise, then, when I turn up.’

‘I think they’ll all get that, I can guarantee,’ Jacquie said. ‘Rambo Maxwell, at your service.’

‘I’m glad you can see the resemblance,’ he said smugly, in his best Sly Stallone. ‘Nole noticed it straight away, didn’t you, chap? And Metternich did. Where is the Count, by the way?’

‘Last I saw, he was out of the cat flap and off up the road doing about ninety miles an hour. Even that cat can be freaked out, you know. Even after all these years of living with you.’ She gestured with her spoon and he sat back. ‘Eggs coming through,’ she said. She brandished the spoon at her son. ‘Scrambled egg, Nole?’

‘Plah!’ he grimaced.

‘Same old, same old there, then,’ she said.

‘He’d probably be all right if you put a bit of smoked salmon in it,’ Maxwell said. He wouldn’t have minded some himself. Fish. Brain food. ‘But enough of this tomfoolery, heart,’ he said, shovelling in the egg. ‘What time are you going in this morning? You were back really late last night.’

‘I know,’ she said, sitting down and picking up her orange juice. ‘I’m going in usual time, though. I’ve got to drop Nole off, for one thing – and you, practically speaking. You can’t ride through Leighford like that … Oh, and anyway, Surrey’s at school still. And I want to see Henry. He hadn’t come back when I left last night and he had been to see the other parent of each girl, the ones who didn’t come in to the nick.’ She took a sip of the juice. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t up for chatting last night; I was just so tired. That Melkins man is a menace.’

‘Melkins? Remind me.’

‘Julie’s stepfather. What a piece of work.’

‘Involved?’ Maxwell had started on the bacon and was feeding illicit bits to Nolan.

‘No. He’s only involved with himself. He wouldn’t have bothered us, I don’t think, except that his wife’s eyes were getting puffy. Honestly!’

‘Have you read my email?’ he asked her.

‘Yes. I’ve compared it with the full quatrain in your book and I think it at least shows he doesn’t mean anyone any physical harm. I mean, the whole thing is nonsense. The joke about the Pot Noodles.’

‘True, but some people believe every word of it – both World Wars, Hitler, the Holocaust, the Kennedy assassination. They say it’s all there if you know where to look. I assume you’ve forwarded it to yourself, something like that?’

‘Yes. It’s possible that the IT boys will be able to track down the sender, but I doubt it. These people just set up different emails on free providers and then abandon them after a few days. It’s the same system spammers use.’

Maxwell had often wondered why they had chosen, out there in IT land, to hijack the name of a perfectly innocuous canned meat to cover emails which could range from the banal to the frankly disgusting. Monty Python had once done an entire sketch on it. ‘Well, I know you’ll do your best. Any light on where the girls might be?’

‘No, none. But I’m pretty sure they’ve just ducked out of sight for a while. They aren’t answering their phones, which is perhaps understandable in the circumstances. And speaking of which, can I have your phone today?’

Maxwell pulled a face at Nolan. ‘Mummies, eh?’ he said. ‘First it’s “take your phone with you” then it’s “don’t take your phone”. Where do we chaps stand? Hmm?’ Nolan looked at his mother and raised his shoulders one by one in a rather inept shrug. He wasn’t taking sides.

‘I’ll watch it for texts, you nit,’ she said, swiping with the dishcloth at his head. ‘Anyway, you’d only get it all painty.’

‘I’ll have you know, madam,’ he said, adjusting his webbing belt, ‘that I do not intend to get one single drop of paint on me. I will be the last teacher standing, you can rely on that. Well, me and Walter Willis.’

‘Yes, well, if you insist. But no one will get anywhere if we don’t get going. Everyone finished?’ There were nods from both her men. ‘Right ho, then. Dishes in the sink. Nolan, clean teeth please and bring your blazer down with you when you come. Rambo – well, I don’t know what to say. Perhaps just a little touch up with the sunblock and I’d say you were good to go.’

Maxwell was trying to see a clear reflection in the cooker hood. It was testament to Mrs B’s hard work that he nearly succeeded. It was the high
gloss that reminded him. ‘Oh, heart of my heart, did I ask you to check for Mrs B? Her missing nevvie, I mean?’

‘Yes, you did,’ said Jacquie, shrugging into her jacket and simultaneously wiggling a foot into a shoe. Maxwell always admired her ability to multi-task. He found that unless he concentrated, he was likely to put both legs down one leg hole, a tendency he had bequeathed to his son. ‘I’ll look into it, Max, if I have time. It all depends on whether the girls have turned up. I must stop trying to put them in one pigeonhole. They might not be together, even.’

‘No, but I bet they are,’ Maxwell said. ‘And thanks for checking for Mrs B. She’s in a right state.’

‘Bless her,’ said Jacquie fondly. She and the cleaning lady had struck up a rapport. Jacquie could find it in her heart to be fond of Vlad the Impaler if he cleaned her toilet, but she had a genuinely soft spot for Mrs B. ‘I will check, but I don’t think I’ll be able to tell her much she doesn’t know already, as family.’

Family. There was that word again, Nostradamus’s word, reaching out from the grave. He sketched a kiss at her. Somehow, he didn’t think she would appreciate a print of his camouflage on her cheek at this late stage of the morning.

The kitchen door swung back and Nolan appeared in the doorway. His shining morning face was beautifully adorned with black. ‘Da
daaaaaaaa!’ he crowed, throwing his arms wide and bending one knee.

All in all it wasn’t a bad Al Jolson for one who had only ever known PC. Keeping a straight face but only by a whisker, Maxwell said, ‘Don’t you “da daaaaa” me, young man. Upstairs and wash that off and report back as soon as possible and as shiny as a new pin. You’ll make mummy late.’

Nolan stamped a foot, but only half-heartedly and went to do as he was told. Jacquie dropped her voice and kept the laugh quiet too. ‘“Da daaaaaaa” indeed,’ she said, and poked Maxwell’s brown and green shoulder. ‘That’s your fault, that is.’

‘Don’t make me laugh,’ Maxwell begged. ‘My eyeliner will run.’

They had managed to regain their composure when the boy came back. ‘All right?’ he said, offering up one cheek at a time for inspection. ‘It’s very boring.’

‘Boring is good when it comes to school uniform,’ his mother said. ‘If you’re good, we’ll dress you up in full gear for tomorrow. If we can get Dads’ bike back in time, we’ll go for a bike ride and see if you can hide in the sand dunes. I bet we won’t be able to find you for ages and ages.’

‘Yay!’ The child bounced up and down. ‘Way to go, Ma,’ and he raced down the stairs. There was a crash as the door was flung open and a ‘Morning, Mrs Toobidge,’ followed by galloping feet up the path.

‘Good morning, Nolan,’ they heard her say faintly. ‘Are Mummy and Daddy at home?’

‘Inna house,’ they heard from a distance. They looked at each other with horror. Not Mrs Troubridge, not now, not when they were running so late. They took a deep breath and went down the stairs as quickly as possible without actually measuring their length in the hall. Jacquie was out first.

‘Morning, Mrs Troubridge,’ she said, taking the path at a run. Thank goodness for remote unlocking, she thought, as the car winked and beeped at her. She gestured Nolan to get in and he, trained since infancy in the esoteric art of Troubridge-avoiding, was in and buckled without being asked twice. She looked behind her for Maxwell. He should have been on her heels.

He had caught some webbing on the banister post and was hooked up in a most
uncomfortable-looking
way. He struggled to get free as Mrs Troubridge regrouped and turned to the open doorway. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom of the hall, Maxwell suddenly loomed out at her, a vision in his jungle camos and warpaint. With a cry, she fell back, clutching her chest.

‘Morning, Mrs Troubridge,’ he called as he barrelled past. ‘Development days, eh? Don’t you just love ’em?’ Jacquie had the door open and he was in and buckled in seconds. Jacquie gunned the engine and they were off. They all sat
in silence for a few minutes, before Nolan spoke.

‘Was that rather rude?’ he asked the passengers in general.

His questions were often stunners, usually at difficult moments. His parents looked at each other. Maxwell tried an insouciant laugh. ‘Not really, old mate,’ he said. ‘We are in a bit of a hurry.’ He twisted round in his seat but Nolan still looked rather stern. ‘Mummy? What do you think?’ Maxwell asked hopefully.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t usually recommend being that rude to people, no, Nole, you’re right. But today was special.’

‘Special Be Rude Day?’ the boy asked hopefully. He could think of a long list of people to use it on, should it prove to be the case. Miss Spinks, his teacher, for one.

‘No. Just We’re In A Rush Day. I’ll make it up to Mrs Troubridge later. Perhaps she can come to tea tomorrow. What do you think of that?’

‘Not much,’ Maxwell was quick to reply. ‘Perhaps a bunch of flowers this evening? She’d like that.’

‘Good idea,’ Jacquie said. ‘So, you see, Nole, if you don’t mean to be rude, you can make it up by doing a nice thing later.’ As she spoke, she knew she was storing up trouble. Elephants and her son never forgot a thing. She could just picture the years of Parent Teacher evenings when she would have to retell this incident, to her detriment as a
competent parent, she was sure. ‘Anyway, here we are at the bus station. Dads is going to catch the bus to the paintball park.’

‘Is he?’ Maxwell was frankly amazed. He thought he was going to be taken to the gate at least, if not the actual door of the training hut. Senior officers like him had chauffeurs and batmen. ‘I haven’t got any money.’

Jacquie pointed to the knapsack on the floor at his feet. ‘Sandwiches, drink, money. I checked with Helen what you would need. Now, off you go, have a good time and play nicely with the other children.’ Maxwell got out of the car and stood there, looking like an overgrown toddler, as the car pulled away. Jacquie turned briefly to her son as she waited to pull out onto the main road. ‘Tuh,’ she said, with a toss of her head. ‘What a fuss about a school trip, eh?’ And the last that Maxwell saw of his wife and son before he went to face the multi-coloured bullets of his colleagues was their laughing faces and, in Nolan’s case, a pointing finger. Good job they were nominally on his side, he thought.

Maxwell was not a natural bus traveller. He was used to the freedom which White Surrey gave him, to go anywhere, by virtually any route. He found it more than slightly irritating to be within sight of his destination, then to take a sharp left and meander around a housing estate for another hour, only to be deposited at a bus stop further
away from his intended target than he had been when the bus had turned off. But, needs must when the devil drives. He did find, though, that if one had to use a bus, it was a darned good idea to do it wearing full jungle camouflage. The bus driver spoke very slowly and clearly to him and gave him change for a twenty-pound note with hardly a flicker. Also, seats were amazingly plentiful when he turned from paying to find somewhere to sit. He decided to be a bit cussed, though, and made his way the length of the bus, smiling benignly at everyone as he went, clouting the odd head with his bag as he passed. Finally, he came to the perfect seat, the back corner. He could sit here and watch the world go by, all around the town and out over The Dam to the wooded area set aside for Paintball Ltd. Parties and Corporate Our Speciality. He wriggled down, trying to get comfortable on a seat made stiff with years of chewing gum and the lord knew what else. Something was sticking into his bum through the thin polyester camouflage trousers. He delved down the back of the seat and came up with a small, spiral-bound notebook with a very girly picture on the front of a kitten in a bow. The teacher in him kicked in and he was about to check for a name when the driver turned round and shouted, ‘Oy, Terminator, Rambo, what’s yer name? This is your stop.’