Particularly after dark.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, it all depends what you’re looking for, doesn’t it?’ the non-rambler asked, then he hauled his sack onto his other shoulder and tramped off through the bracken. ‘See you!’ he called.
Now Peter Maxwell had encountered Naturists before. Odd people who insisted on going skyclad even when the weather would freeze the bollocks off a brass monkey. Had he just met one now? Or perhaps he was a bird watcher? An orchid fancier? Perhaps something altogether darker. There was a light in the old boy’s eye that Maxwell didn’t altogether like.
But Nolan was grizzly. It was fiendishly hot despite the overspreading boughs of the oak and he certainly hadn’t liked the grizzled old man that had just loomed over him from nowhere. He was tired and thirsty and he missed his Mummy and he missed his Juanita. He and Maxwell pedalled home, pausing just long enough for Nolan to smear himself liberally with ice cream and cherry sauce.
‘And remember,’ Maxwell tapped the side of his nose, ‘Not a word to your mother. You know how “healthy living” she gets at moments like these.’
‘Where?’ Maxwell was sitting like Confucius in his back garden, tinkering with his lawnmower. Why was it, he wondered at moments like these, that the bloody green stuff grew every time you turned your back? Confucius never hadthis trouble. Confucius probably had people for chores like this.
‘Brighton, Max,’ Jacquie was arranging the parasol over Nolan’s pram. The little boy lay in nothing but a nappy, sunblocked to buggery and with a string of bright plastic things across his line of vision. Maxwell had optimistically placed a copy of von Clausewitz’s
On War
in there, but Nolan had thrown it out of the pram – overrated in his opinion. ‘You must have heard of it. Along the coast a bit. Pier. Candy floss. Kiss Me Quick hats. Bit like Leighford with knobs on.’
‘The AIDS capital of the South,’ Maxwell nodded.
She looked at him. ‘That dates you,’ she said.
He remembered the Black Death too, but he wasn’t going to admit to that.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Day of Rest, Woman Policeman,’ he reminded her.
‘Tell me about it.’ Jacquie bent down to plant a kiss on the curly forehead of her little boy. ‘It’s only shopping.’
‘Shopping?’ Maxwell nearly cut his thumb on that plastic orange thing that passes for a spanner in the world of gardeners.
‘Well, it’s a working shop, if you know what I mean. Of course, I can’t tell you anything about it.’
‘And I can’t prevent myself from throwing this lawnmower at you if you don’t,’ he smiled in a matter-of-fact way.
She laughed, tucking herself up on the steamer chair. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Just this once…’
And they laughed together.
There was a single cry from Nolan. One that said, ‘for God’s sake, you two, stop enjoying yourselves’.
As he waited for her to get ready, he saw in that bewildering place that was his imagination, the Minutemen crouching in their buckskins in the long grass, priming their flintlocks and fowling pieces. He saw the lines of red, heard the flags snapping in the stiffening breeze, the muffled rattle of the drums. An ambush – how typical. One day the Americans would come to know what it was like to be sniped at by people who refused to play by the rules of warfare. But that was another 4 th July, long, long ago. And a bunch of self-important and self-interested lawyers had written a document that tried to excuse their treachery and self-interest. Put your John Hancock on that.
This 4 th July was altogether more peaceful, but it was all one when you were a historian. And mad.
They kissed under the sycamore that shaded the open-plan patch of lawn at the front of 38 Columbine, yellow now with the lack of rain. ‘You take care now, Woman Policeman,’ he told her. ‘And don’t talk to any strange men.’
‘It’s OK, Benny,’ Jacquie leaned
‘Really?’
‘Well, it all depends what you’re looking for, doesn’t it?’ the non-rambler asked, then he hauled his sack onto his other shoulder and tramped off through the bracken. ‘See you!’ he called.
Now Peter Maxwell had encountered Naturists before. Odd people who insisted on going skyclad even when the weather would freeze the bollocks off a brass monkey. Had he just met one now? Or perhaps he was a bird watcher? An orchid fancier? Perhaps something altogether darker. There was a light in the old boy’s eye that Maxwell didn’t altogether like.
But Nolan was grizzly. It was fiendishly hot despite the overspreading boughs of the oak and he certainly hadn’t liked the grizzled old man that had just loomed over him from nowhere. He was tired and thirsty and he missed his Mummy and he missed his Juanita. He and Maxwell pedalled home, pausing just long enough for Nolan to smear himself liberally with ice cream and cherry sauce.
‘And remember,’ Maxwell tapped the side of his nose, ‘Not a word to your mother. You know how “healthy living” she gets at moments like these.’
‘Where?’ Maxwell was sitting like Confucius in his back garden, tinkering with his lawnmower. Why was it, he wondered at moments like these, that the bloody green stuff grew every time you turned your back? Confucius never hadthis trouble. Confucius probably had people for chores like this.
‘Brighton, Max,’ Jacquie was arranging the parasol over Nolan’s pram. The little boy lay in nothing but a nappy, sunblocked to buggery and with a string of bright plastic things across his line of vision. Maxwell had optimistically placed a copy of von Clausewitz’s
On War
in there, but Nolan had thrown it out of the pram – overrated in his opinion. ‘You must have heard of it. Along the coast a bit. Pier. Candy floss. Kiss Me Quick hats. Bit like Leighford with knobs on.’
‘The AIDS capital of the South,’ Maxwell nodded.
She looked at him. ‘That dates you,’ she said.
He remembered the Black Death too, but he wasn’t going to admit to that.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Day of Rest, Woman Policeman,’ he reminded her.
‘Tell me about it.’ Jacquie bent down to plant a kiss on the curly forehead of her little boy. ‘It’s only shopping.’
‘Shopping?’ Maxwell nearly cut his thumb on that plastic orange thing that passes for a spanner in the world of gardeners.
‘Well, it’s a working shop, if you know what I mean. Of course, I can’t tell you anything about it.’
‘And I can’t prevent myself from throwing this lawnmower at you if you don’t,’ he smiled in a matter-of-fact way.
She laughed, tucking herself up on the steamer chair. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Just this once…’
And they laughed together.
There was a single cry from Nolan. One that said, ‘for God’s sake, you two, stop enjoying yourselves’.
As he waited for her to get ready, he saw in that bewildering place that was his imagination, the Minutemen crouching in their buckskins in the long grass, priming their flintlocks and fowling pieces. He saw the lines of red, heard the flags snapping in the stiffening breeze, the muffled rattle of the drums. An ambush – how typical. One day the Americans would come to know what it was like to be sniped at by people who refused to play by the rules of warfare. But that was another 4 th July, long, long ago. And a bunch of self-important and self-interested lawyers had written a document that tried to excuse their treachery and self-interest. Put your John Hancock on that.
This 4 th July was altogether more peaceful, but it was all one when you were a historian. And mad.
They kissed under the sycamore that shaded the open-plan patch of lawn at the front of 38 Columbine, yellow now with the lack of rain. ‘You take care now, Woman Policeman,’ he told her. ‘And don’t talk to any strange men.’
‘It’s OK, Benny,’ Jacquie leaned
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