The Tomb in Turkey

THREE

‘So how’s Gaby?’

‘Pretty good, actually. The morning sickness seems to have stopped, and she’s entering the blooming phase of pregnancy.’

‘Oh.’ When she’d been expecting the baby who became the man at the other end of the phone, Carole hadn’t had a ‘blooming’ phase – at least, not that she could recollect. But then she hadn’t much liked any aspect of carrying Stephen. ‘And has Lily taken on board that she’s going to have a new brother or sister?’

‘Well, we’ve told her enough times, but whether she’s taken it on board is another matter. Her main preoccupation seems to be playing with princess dolls.’

‘Very right and proper for a child of her age,’ said the fond grandmother (who was far from ‘right on’ when it came to gender politics). ‘Stephen …’

‘Yes, Mother?’

Carole still wished her son would relax enough to call her ‘Mummy’. Or even ‘Mum’, though that, of course, was rather vulgar. ‘I wondered how you’d react if I were to go away for a while …?’

‘Go away? Where to?’

‘I’ve been offered a chance of a week or a fortnight’s holiday in Turkey.’

‘Well, that sounds wonderful. Who’re you going with?’

‘If I go, it’ll be with Jude. You know Jude?’

‘Yes, of course. Your neighbour, the hippy-dippy healer. Well, it sounds a jolly good idea to me.’

‘But you’re sure you won’t need me around?’ The question was almost plaintive.

‘What for?’ The question wasn’t the most tactful that Stephen Seddon had ever posed.

‘Well, you know, if Gaby needs help with Lily like she did earlier in the pregnancy, or if she—’

‘No, no, Gaby’s as fit as a fiddle now. No problems with Lily. And if there are any, Gaby’s got a network of local friends who can help out. No, you go to Turkey. Have a great time. When are you off?’

‘Oh, I haven’t definitely decided I’m going yet.’

When she finished the phone call, Carole felt a little bereft. She didn’t realize the delight that grown-up children who have their own children feel when a parent makes their own holiday arrangements. It removes both a level of anxiety and a level of guilt. It’s another year that they don’t have the feeling they should be including the grandparent in their own holiday plans.

‘I’m really not sure, Jude.’

‘Well, I’m afraid I need a decision pretty quickly. The flights need booking.’

‘Yes, I can see that. It’s just that … well, we’ve never been on holiday together, have we?’

‘No, but we’ve done lots of other things together, so it’s no big deal. And from the sound of the villa, it’s big enough for us not to live in each other’s pockets. Some days we can do stuff together, other days we can be on our own.’

‘Yes …’

The monosyllable was so unconvinced that Jude asked, ‘What’re you really worried about?’

‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ Carole lied. (She was always worried.) ‘It’s just it’s a very long time since I’ve been on a holiday … and I’ve never been on this kind of Mediterranean holiday … and, well, you say we could do “stuff” together. What kind of stuff?’

‘Whatever we wanted to do.’

‘So what might you want to do?’

‘On holiday?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re asking me what my idea of a holiday is?’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘Well, my idea – or my ideal – would be lolling about by the pool on a lounger, reading some kind of trashy novel, taking the occasional splash in the pool, going out for lots of nice meals, sitting out after dark with a nice drink … That’d do me.’

‘Hm. That sounds very … laid-back.’ Carole had difficulty speaking the alien expression.

‘Well, that’s what I need. For the first few days, anyway. I may be up for the odd excursion later into the holiday.’

‘Hm.’

‘Why, Carole? What’s your idea of a holiday?’

‘I don’t really know,’ she was forced to admit.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter. Going on holiday isn’t like taking an exam. Nobody has any expectations of what you do. It’s just an opportunity to relax.’

Carole’s expression suggested she found this concept as alien as being ‘laid-back’.

There was a silence. They were drinking coffee in the amiable chaos of Jude’s sitting room. The May mini heatwave was continuing, but there was enough breeze to set the bamboo wind-chimes hanging at the windows tinkling. When she had first entered Woodside Cottage, Carole had found the sound irritating, yet another example of her neighbour’s New Age flakiness. Now she found the chimes rather soothing.

‘Sorry to nag,’ said Jude, ‘but I’m afraid I do need a decision from you.’

‘Of course, yes. I can see that.’

‘Well …?’

‘It’s difficult …’ Carole began.

‘It is not at all difficult. Or if there is a difficulty it can only be a practical one. Have you got other commitments you can’t postpone for the time we’re proposing to be away? Is it that you can’t afford it?’

‘Good heavens no,’ replied Carole, rather affronted. Her money management was very precise; she even managed to save quite a substantial amount of her generous Home Office pension. She would never even contemplate doing something she couldn’t afford and was appalled that Jude thought she might.

‘Well then, I must have a decision from you. I need to book the flights.’

‘And are you thinking of one week or two?’

‘Oh, it has to be two weeks. Go for one week, you spend the first half untwitching and the second half twitching up again.’

‘I think I could only manage a week,’ said Carole before hastily adding: ‘That is, if I were to go.’

‘Well, that’d be fine. You could come back at the end of the first week, and I could stay on for another.’

‘On your own?’

‘Yes, of course on my own.’

‘But would you feel safe?’

‘I would feel perfectly safe. It’s Turkey we’re talking about, not Syria.’

‘But Turkey’s a Muslim country …’

‘Yes.’

‘And Muslims aren’t very friendly towards women.’

‘Carole, where on earth did you get that from?’

‘I read the papers. I watch television.’

Jude always found it strange that for someone whose daily paper was The Times, Carole could sometimes be so Daily Mail in her views. ‘Turkey,’ said Jude patiently, ‘is an extremely civilized country. I’d feel safer there than I would in Brighton.’

‘Hm,’ said Carole. ‘Have you checked out availability of flights?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Jude, in a tone which was as near as she ever got to exasperation. ‘Because I don’t know whether I’m booking one flight or two, do I?’

‘I’ve done some research.’

‘On flights?’

‘Yes. Online, of course,’ said Carole. ‘You’d be amazed the number of offers there are … if you shop around.’

Jude, a creature of impulse to whom the concept of ‘shopping around’ was anathema, just said, ‘And?’

‘Well, there are quite a lot of flights to Dalaman this time of year …’

‘Good. I thought there would be.’

‘… but a lot of them go from Heathrow or Luton or Stansted, which is rather out of the way for us.’

‘We really need to fly from Gatwick.’

‘That’s what I thought. Well, there is availability.’

‘For the dates we want?’

‘Yes. I’ve checked out both the one week and two week options.’

‘Where did you check them out?’

‘On a price comparison website.’

‘Oh.’ Jude would never have bothered to do that. She’d have just gone for the first option that presented itself. She wasn’t very good at the minutiae of budgeting. She understood the meaning of the word ‘budget’, but not its practical application.

‘There’s quite a big difference between the most expensive and the cheapest.’

‘Really?’

‘Over a hundred pounds.’

‘Wow.’

‘But I’ve managed to get a very good deal.’ And Carole told Jude the price. Which was a very good deal indeed.

‘And we can get that deal on the dates we want?’

‘Yes, there is availability. And I’ve put a hold on the flights through an agent.’

‘For the one week or the two?’

‘Both. I have to give the agent confirmation by the end of tomorrow.’

‘Oh, that’s brilliant, Carole. I’m rubbish at doing stuff like that. Thank you so much.’

‘Don’t worry. I quite enjoy doing “stuff like that”.’

‘And I also meant to say thank you for deciding that you are joining me in Turkey.’

‘Oh, I haven’t decided whether I’m going to come yet,’ said Carole.

‘On your own then?’ asked Ted Crisp. ‘No Carole?’

It was half-past five. Jude had felt like a change of scene, and the Crown and Anchor, Fethering’s only pub, fitted the bill perfectly.

‘No,’ she replied, ‘and it’s actually quite a relief. Carole is being at her most Carole at the moment, if you know what I mean.’

‘I certainly do,’ said the landlord. He was a large, scruffy man with matted beard and hair. It was warm enough for him to be wearing his summer uniform of faded blue T-shirt and jeans (as opposed to his winter uniform of faded blue sweatshirt and jeans). ‘Large Chilean Chardonnay, is it?’ he asked, reaching to the fridge for the bottle.

‘Do you know, I think I’ll have something different.’

‘Blimey O’Reilly,’ said Ted. ‘What’s up? The Pope’s a Catholic, bears, er, do their business in the woods, and Carole and Jude always drink Chilean Chardonnay. It’s one of the immutable rules of life.’

‘Maybe, but it’s just that I had some New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc a couple of days ago and it was really nice. So I thought I might have a change.’

‘Well, that’s not a bad call, Jude. I love the old New Zealand whites. Particularly the Marlborough Sauvignons.’ He produced the relevant bottle from the fridge. ‘This one’s a beauty. Crisp as a new apple. Still a large one, is it?’

Jude nodded.

‘And do you think Lady Muck from High Tor will change from the Chilean Chardonnay too?’

‘I doubt it. I can’t see her wanting to do anything I do.’

‘What’s this then? Rifts in the lute? Less than perfect harmony between neighbours?’

‘Oh, it’s just, as I said, Carole being Carole.’ And Jude gave Ted a precis of Carole’s recent dithering over the Turkish holiday.

‘If she’s behaving like that, I’d have thought you’d be well shot of her. When Carole gets grumpy …’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but Jude picked up the reference. Incongruous though it might seem, Ted Crisp and Carole Seddon had at one point had a brief affair. And it was no doubt during that that he had experienced Carole getting grumpy. ‘Can’t you just go on your own? Or isn’t there one of your many lovers around who …?’

‘I don’t have many lovers, Ted.’

‘According to Carole you do.’

‘She just exaggerates. For someone who claims to have no imagination, she’s extremely inventive when it comes to her view of my love life. She thinks every man I speak to must have been one of my lovers at some point.’

‘Isn’t that rather flattering?’

‘I’m not sure that it is, actually, no. Anyway, there are other friends I could ask – ones I don’t actually go to bed with – but I can’t do that until I get a definite yea or nay from Carole.’

‘Why’s she messing you around like this?’

‘It’s just her nature. It’s how she is. Before she does anything she has to go through great rigmaroles of decision. She has to assess all the negatives before she gets near to a positive. Basically, she’s just afraid of anything new. She hasn’t been to Turkey before. So she’s scared she’ll make a fool of herself in unfamiliar surroundings.’

‘I think you’re right. How’s the Sauvignon?’

‘Delicious.’

‘I thought you’d agree. They do some very clever things with their wines in New Zealand. Anyway, how come you’ve got this holiday coming up?’

‘A friend’s offered me the use of his villa in a village called Kayaköy.’

‘Useful friend to have. Or was this for “services rendered”?’ Ted suggested roguishly.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Another of all these ex-lovers that Carole goes on about?’

‘No,’ Jude lied. ‘He’s a guy called Barney Willingdon.’

‘Oh.’ Clearly, the name meant something to Ted.

‘Property developer,’ said Jude.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘You’ve met him?’

‘No, I haven’t, actually, but I’ve heard a lot about him.’

‘How come?’

‘One of the advantages, Jude – or disadvantages, according to your personality – of being a pub landlord is that a lot of people talk to you.’

‘And in your case is it an advantage or disadvantage?’

‘Depends who’s doing the talking. You do get some interesting people passing through. You also get your regulars who bore you to death with the same moans every night. Hazard of a publican’s life. I’ve got a mate who runs a pub in London. He has his end of the bar where he always stands when he’s not serving, and over it he’s got this big sign saying “NO SYMPATHY CORNER”.’

‘Ooh, I love that. Maybe you should do the same, Ted?’

‘Don’t think I haven’t thought of it.’

‘Anyway, what’s this got to do with Barney Willingdon?’

‘Ah, well now, you see, his name is heard quite often round here.’

‘Oh?’

‘There’s a guy who used to work with him who’s one of my regulars.’

‘One of the interesting ones or the moaners?’

‘Can’t you tell from my tone of voice?’

‘Yes, I certainly can.’

‘Name of Fergus McNally.’ Ted Crisp looked at his watch. ‘He’ll be in here soon. On the dot of six every night. You’d recognize him. But you’re not often in here at six. Nobody is, so I’m the one who gets buttonholed. Talk about a captive audience. It’s like I’m nailed to the bloody bar with Fergus till I get a few more customers in.’

‘So you never escape?’

‘Only if I can fob him off on some other poor bugger and let him bore them to death instead.’

‘Ted, this may sound a strange request, but could I volunteer to be “some other poor bugger”?’