The Judas Sheep (11 page)

‘I said you could always have chosen a male counsellor,’ she interrupted.

‘That’s right. And I said

‘You said that was why you’d chosen a female one.’

‘Er, yes. Oh God! What must you be thinking? Well, I wasn’t telling the truth. I was trying to wind you up, plus pay you a concealed compliment. I really did feel vulnerable. You’re a very attractive woman.’

‘With a very attractive son?’

The answer to that was yes, but not in the way she thought. I said: ‘Look. I’m straight. I’ve been married once and have a girlfriend that I’m devoted to. I’d like it if we could all be …’

‘You two arguing already?’ Guy interrupted. He was carrying the ball, and tossed it towards my head. I nodded it twice, caught it on my instep and flicked it back to him.

‘You never lose class,’ I boasted, holding my hands wide for the applause. It was the first time I’d kicked a ball for fifteen years. ‘What did the coach tell you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, him. He’s only the English master. Something about “And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here.” He’s a right tosser, he is.’

‘Guy!’

‘Sorry, Mum. But he is.’

‘Right. So listen. The main danger is that big
centre-forward
—’

‘Lurch?’

‘Yes – when they break away. You were lucky to save that last one. Forget him, just go for the ball.
Throw yourself at it and try to turn sideways. That way you cover as much of the goalmouth as possible. Understand?’

‘He’ll kick my head off!’ Guy protested.

‘Very probably,’ I admitted. ‘But the good news is this: you won’t feel a thing. If you go in half-hearted, you’ll get hurt. Go in like a kamikaze buffalo, determined to go straight through him, and you won’t feel a thing. Not until next day. You’ll have some bruises, but you’ll be proud of them. Ask any rugby player – he’ll tell you the same thing.’

He didn’t look convinced, and neither did his mother.

The second half was just like the little bit of the first that I’d seen. Guy’s team did most of the attacking, but couldn’t score, the others making the occasional break down the field. Guy made a couple of flashy saves from long-range efforts and did a lot of dancing about. With about three minutes to go his side were peppering the other goal with shots, every player except Guy packed into their half. Then the inevitable happened. Their goalkeeper gathered the ball and punted it over the halfway line to where Lurch was waiting. The referee, who taught history through the week, had never heard of the offside rule and kept his whistle in his pocket.

Lurch charged towards Guy’s goal like a Rottweiler after a rent collector. I felt Diane grab my arm, then let go. Guy crouched, bobbing about, and moved forward to narrow the angle. Lurch had the ball under better
control this time – he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

I waited until he was nearly on Guy then screamed: ‘Go gerrim, Guy!’

Guy threw himself at the flashing feet of the big youth, blanketing the ball with his chest and arms. Lurch’s legs flew into the air as he cartwheeled over Guy’s body and he crashed down in the back of the net. Guy jumped up, bounced the ball twice, and booted it back up the field.

The other team had raced after their centre-forward, leaving Guy’s players stranded in their half, but now fortunes were reversed yet again. The referee was consistent in his disregard of the offside rule and eight of Guy’s team managed to manoeuvre the ball around what was left of their opponents’ defence to score the only goal of the match. Diane danced a jig and shouted her congratulations down the length of the field. Lurch, stars revolving around his head, was still trying to find his way out through the netting when the final whistle blew.

‘I’m on my way back to Yorkshire,’ I told Diane as we walked slowly back towards where the cars were parked. The two teams had gone for a shower. We never had showers in my day. A bucket of cold water between twenty-two of us, and we thought we were lucky.

‘Oh,’ was all she said.

‘Will you say goodbye to Guy for me?’

‘He’ll be sorry you didn’t say it yourself.’

‘I know, but it’s a long drive. Should have been off hours ago. Tell him I’ll be back, in the summer.’

‘Very well.’

‘That’s if I’m welcome,’ I said, with a sideways smile at her. She didn’t smile back.

I fished an old envelope out of my pocket. ‘Here,’ I said, handing it to her. That’s my address, and a couple of numbers where I can be reached. The name and number on the back is one of your local police sergeants. He’s expecting Guy to ring him to arrange a day with them. Tell him to mention my name. He’ll be OK.’

She slipped the envelope into a coat pocket without any comment.

We’d reached the cars. I was wearing my big Gortex anorak that I wear for serious walking, half-open at the front because I’d overdone the warm clothing. ‘Look,’ I said, turning to her. ‘I want to tell you that I am not gay. I have never been gay and never want to be gay. I have no inclinations in that direction whatsoever. Understood?’

She reached up and pulled the collars of my jacket together, snug around my neck. I gazed straight into those eyes that caught the winter sun and shattered its rays into all the unnamed shades of green.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, and jammed my zipper tight up under my chin. I swear there was a challenge in her words, and I swore not to accept it.

It’s a long way from St Ives to Heckley. You drive east for two hundred miles, then turn left and drive
north for another two hundred. Most of the roads are motorways, which are fast but boring, and the caravans are still hibernating in February, so I was home by nine o’clock. Highlight of the journey was playing a tape of Glass’s Itaipu, extremely loudly. Annabelle gave it to me at Christmas. I rang her, arranging to see her for Sunday lunch, read my mail, had a shower and crashed out.

Annabelle insisted on cooking lunch herself, and out of deference to my tastes it was roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.

‘Nearly as good as Mother’s,’ I told her with a contented smile, raising my wine glass and lowering my head in respect.

‘Praise indeed,’ she replied.

I was looking forward to spending a relaxing afternoon stretched out together on her settee, listening to Elgar, or … Max Bygraves, but Annabelle had other ideas. She wanted to know all about photography.

‘So you’re still taking the tobacco pictures, for Andrew Fallon,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

‘OK. So let’s make sure they are worth the risk.’

‘Charles, they are worth the risk. I have to take them, don’t you see?’

‘No, not really. I’d have thought there were hundreds of correspondents who could take them.’

‘Then why aren’t they doing it? How many of them are truly independent? If the papers take an
anti-smoking 
stance they will lose millions in advertising revenue. Did you know that before the 1989 General Election, the tobacco companies loaned all their prime advertising sites to the Government, free of charge? And the Prime Minister was on a six-figure retainer for a consultancy fee, in return for which we vetoed the European Parliament’s attempts to ban all tobacco advertising?’

‘Yes, Annabelle,’ I sighed. ‘I read all about it, in Private Eye.’

‘And doesn’t it make you angry?’

‘A little, but I’ve other things to be angry about.’

She blushed, and looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry, Charles. I had no right to say that. I know how much you care about other people.’

‘But you don’t know how much I care about you,’ I declared.

I explained all about film speeds, exposures, depth of field; the full ten-dollar lecture. Annabelle understood it all, but at the end she said: ‘Gosh, there is a lot to remember.’

‘Put your coat on,’ I told her, ‘and I’ll take you to see my camera. And it’s about time you visited chez Priest’ The place was still tidy from my blitz on it, and I didn’t want to have wasted my efforts.

When we swung into my cul-de-sac we saw the scarlet Jaguar E-type sitting outside my house. ‘It’s my old car!’ I gasped with delight.

My father was a Jaguar enthusiast, but he could
never afford to own one. When he retired he bought a clapped-out E-type with the intention of restoring it, but he died and it came to me. I spent a fortune on it, did a good job, and then sold it for a minor pop star’s ransom. It was a fabulous motor, the only car I could ever enthuse over, but it deserved a better home than I could give it. And now it was back.

The man I’d sold it to extricated himself and we shook hands. I introduced him to Annabelle and gave her a brief history of the car.

‘I was just passing,’ he claimed. ‘Hope you don’t mind me calling like this?’

‘Of course not,’ I told him. ‘You’re welcome any time. How’s the old bus going?’

‘Like a dream.’

‘Smashing. Let’s go in for a coffee.’

‘Er, no thanks, Mr Priest. I’d better be on my way. I’d just like a quick word with you though, if possible.’

‘Sure.’ I unlocked my front door and gave Annabelle a wink as I ushered her inside. ‘Make yourself at home, I won’t be a second,’ I told her, turning to see what he wanted.

He gathered his breath and said: ‘I’ve decided to sell her. Thought I’d give you the first refusal, as you were pretty decent with me. I’ve spent over eight grand on new tyres all round, gearbox overhaul, re-spray and new leather. She’s better than new, and you can have her back for what you sold her for. Interested?’

‘Phew!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s a temptation.’

I walked round the car, and squatted down in front of it to see it from the most advantageous viewpoint. The E-type Jaguar is the most uncompromisingly beautiful vehicle ever made. From certain angles the windscreen looks a shade too high, but would Sophia Loren be the loveliest woman in the world if her mouth wasn’t just a nibble too wide? It looked as if it were doing a ton just standing there.

I stretched upright again and shook my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘My heart would love it, but the fact is, I don’t like messing with cars; especially cleaning and polishing them. It needs someone who’ll look after it better than I can. It’s certainly a good offer, though. You should sell it easily enough.’

His disappointment was obvious. ‘To tell the truth, Mr Priest, I need the money. The business is in trouble and the bank’s putting pressure on me. We desperately need an injection of cash. We’re caught in the negative equity trap with the house, so it looks as if the car has to go. Would you be interested if I brought the price down a couple of grand?’

‘Have you tried advertising?’

‘Not yet, but you know yourself how that just attracts posers and dreamers with no money.’

‘Yeah, that’s true. Do you mind if Annabelle has a look?’

‘No, of course not.’

I tapped on the window to attract her attention and beckoned for her to join us.

‘Let’s see how you look in the driving seat,’ I said, opening the door for her. She looked as if she were born to it.

We hummed and hawed for a while, and I told him I was doubtful but would think about it. He went away looking dejected. Annabelle and I watched the car as the brake-lights came on at the end of the street, and the long bonnet swung into the main road and slid away.

‘Do you think I should buy it?’ I asked her as we went back inside.

‘Ooh, definitely!’ she declared.

‘The bank is foreclosing on his business. Poor bloke needs the money desperately.’

‘Can you afford it?’

‘The money he gave me for it is still in the building society, earning about one per cent interest. It would probably be enough to build a couple of hospitals, where you are going.’

‘You can’t draw comparisons like that, Charles. It’s your money to do what you want with.’

‘Mmm, I suppose so. The question I ask myself is: was I looking for a new car before he came? The answer is no. So let’s get our feet back on the ground and give you your lesson in photography.’

My old single-lens reflex is good quality, but you have to do everything manually. Annabelle still thought it looked complicated.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Technology will come to your assistance. Now let’s see. If you are going away on
Wednesday, that only leaves two days. Presumably you need some time to yourself for shopping and packing?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘OK. Will I be able to see you Monday afternoon? Then you can have Tuesday to yourself and I’ll take you to the airport on Wednesday. How does that sound?’

‘It sounds a terrible imposition on you.’

‘Oh, it is. Terrible,’ I laughed. The latest cameras,’ I continued, ‘are fully automatic. You just compose the picture in the viewfinder and press the button. Anybody could do it. Even a woman.’ I screwed up my face in concentration as I reconsidered that final statement. ‘Well, some women,’ I decided. Before she could fight back I said: ‘Am I right in believing you have a birthday on March the third?’

‘Yes. How did you know that?’

I tapped the side of my nose. ‘Just doing my job, ma’am.’

Annabelle blushed. She blushes very easily. If she could control it I’d think she used it as a weapon. It certainly worked on me. ‘You look quite young for your age,’ I teased.

Rod Stewart was on the CD player, croaking his version of Waltzing Matilda. Annabelle took a
backhanded
swipe at me and declared: ‘You mean, I’m older than you thought!’

I grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards me. ‘I like older women.’

We lay on the settee, listening to Rod. He’s a romantic
so-and-so. It grew dark around us, the glow from the fire casting soft shadows. I stroked the down in the nape of Annabelle’s neck and said: ‘I wish you’d stay here tonight.’

She didn’t answer with words, but her head, buried in my shoulder, gently shook from side to side.

‘Why?’ I whispered, running my fingers into her soft fair hair.

She moved up, so we were cheek to cheek. ‘I … I don’t know. Please don’t be angry with me.’

I kissed her nose. ‘It’s not important,’ I told her. It was what I wanted most in the world, but I’d settle for what I wanted second-most.