Taking the Heat Read online

  “That’s a brand name, Dave, not a strength guide.”

  He chuckled. “I know. I was just checking to see if you’re paying attention!”

  “If I could be bothered, I’d throw something at you,” Brenda warned mock-seriously.

  “I figured you’d find it too much effort.”

  “Consider yourself thrown at, then.”

  “You usually miss anyway.” Dave turned and took the last two drinks out of the cool box: Cain’s beer for himself and a cherry Coke for Brenda. The ice in the box had melted to mush. “These aren’t especially cold anymore, sweetheart. We should think about that early lunch once we’ve finished them. I’d better buy some ice when we refill the cool box.”

  ***

  The timber-framed terrazzo was blindingly, spotlessly white, and the noon sun seemed to bounce off, making it possible to sit comfortably in the shade created by the straw thatch overhead. The weakest hint of a current of air tried to circulate from time to time, without success.

  “When I think of how crowded that strip of beach was this morning… My grandfather always said Southport was known as ‘the seaside without the sea’ when he was growing up,” Brenda said, stirring a swizzle stick in her aperitif.

  “Did he say why?” Dave was trying to resist the overwhelming temptation to empty his ice-cold Magners in a single swallow, and his resolve was weakening by the second.

  “It’s to do with local tides and currents. At low tide, if you stood on the road, you could only just see the sea.”

  “But it can still come all the way up to the road. Remember the damage the winter storms caused last year?”

  “Yeah. That caught everyone on the hop, didn’t it? Of course, we’ve had so many mild winters on the trot, everyone’s assumed it was going to carry on the same way.”

  “People will always tend to go with the flow when it’s a good news week.” Dave paused and shot Brenda a quick glance, but something warned him that it would be better not to improvise a bar of the old sixties hit at this point. He sipped his drink to cover the hitch and continued. “I mean, if they like the idea, they’ll use any excuse to believe it’s gospel. Which is only human nature, I suppose— Yes, please.”

  He gave in to temptation and emptied his glass as the waiter approached with their tapas and a mixed-salad platter, ordering refills for both glasses. As a token gesture, they had both put an absolute minimum layer of clothing over their swimwear before settling at the nearest open-air restaurant that was reasonably busy.

  “If a place is crowded, it’s usually because they serve decent food,” was Dave’s argument, and looking at what they were being served, Brenda thought he was probably right. The restaurant was across a footbridge spanning the miniature railway which had been one of Southport’s tourist attractions from time immemorial. Following the decision to pedestrianise the road which served the beaches, the railway had been developed and expanded to cater for elderly and infirm visitors or anyone who didn’t want to rent a bicycle or quad bike in the centre of town. Those were permitted on the road; separate cycle lanes had been marked out, wide enough for emergency services vehicles to use as and when needed.

  “So you think these people who shout the odds about global warming are misguided doom-and-gloom merchants, then?” Brenda finished the last of her salad and nodded to Dave that he was welcome to polish off what was left.

  “Hard to say, love. I don’t know enough about it to have an informed opinion, but if the science johnnies think there’s something to worry about…” He shrugged and speared the final king prawn from the platter, continuing thoughtfully, “Since there’s such a narrow strip of beach above the waterline now, it’s reasonable to assume the water level overall must be higher than it used to be. It’s a very flat beach, without much of a slope, which I’m guessing is the reason there used to be such a big difference between high- and low-tide marks.”

  “Which also means the tide comes in and goes out very quickly,” Brenda added. She wasn’t sure if it was relevant or important in any way, but she’d opted for an education-and-languages route through sixth form and later university. Minor details of that nature were part of her make-up, even in her leisure time. She enjoyed the rough-and-tumble of a competitive pub trivia quiz as much as Dave did, and if they both managed to get themselves onto the same team, it quite often won the cash pot.

  “Okay, I know it’s only pin money,” Dave always reasoned, “but it pays for the evening’s drinks—and I’ve no wish to go on Mastermind and make a prat of myself!”

  Occasionally, Brenda wondered what it would be like to take part in one of the other, less academic TV quiz programmes and give her brain a break, but she was happy to see Dave enjoying the relaxed atmosphere and friendly banter of the pub quiz circuit, and equally glad to share the amateur scene with him.

  “Anything you fancy doing this afternoon?”

  Brenda glanced at her watch before replying. It was just turned one-thirty; the hottest part of the day was still ahead. “Nothing too strenuous, not in this weather,” she answered with a grin. “And we should be a bit careful not to burn while we’re out and about, but the thought of being indoors…” She shuddered.

  “Well, at least the supermarket is air-conditioned, and we’ll need drinks whatever we’re doing.”

  “And ice. You said you’d buy ice.”

  “Your wish is my command, oh mistress mine! I hadn’t forgotten, but it’s where to go afterwards. D’you think it would be cooler if we go down to Marine Lake and either hire a boat, or see if there’s a couple of seats on one of the cruise ships? I fancy going on that big paddle steamer. I hear they have live jazz bands.”

  Chapter Three

  Errol Dwight popped a match with his thumbnail and touched it to his trademark black cheroot. He had fifteen minutes of freedom before he had to duck back inside and blow that horn for another two hours on the return trip, but these few minutes were his precious time alone, and he’d worked hard for it.

  From Stetson to boots, he cut an imposing figure in white with discreet gold thread embroidered on strategically chosen seams. The colour was a deliberate choice in this weather. It reflected most of the heat, or so the experts assured him, but the laundry bills were ridiculous. Every single sweat mark showed, and there were plenty of them. Everything he touched or even brushed against unawares seemed to leave a permanent mark. He had four identical jackets and five pairs of pants, and spent over an hour each evening cleaning his boots just to maintain the image he had as one of the best jazz trumpeters in North West England—which, for all practical purposes, meant the best in the UK.

  The drummer, Max, pushed through the saloon door carrying two tall, slender glasses covered in rime frost and decorated with an outrageous number of slices of fresh fruit. Anyone seeing it could be forgiven for assuming that these trad jazz players were hard-drinkin’ good ol’ boys; in fact, none of the band drank alcohol when they were being paid to play—though what they did in their spare time and during rehearsals was another matter altogether.

  Was it an overworked imagination, or did Errol really hear a hiss of evaporation as the ice-cold lemonade hit the back of his throat? He almost convinced himself he’d seen the faintest suggestion of a cloud of steam issuing from his own lips, just at the very edge of his field of vision.

  Max chugged at his glass as eagerly as Errol, who was still listening intently, trying to decide if the lemonade was evaporating against superheated tonsils or if it was a more mundane hiss caused by the simple act of decanting a fizzy drink.

  “What you looking at?” Max asked, hugging his glass protectively to his chest as he noticed Errol’s interest.

  Shamefacedly, Errol admitted his momentary indecisiveness between hiss and fizz.

  “Mmmmm.” Max fished pieces of fruit from his glass with a cocktail skewer. “I doubt global warming’s that much of a problem, Errol. Not yet, anyway.”

  Errol sent his cheroot butt spinning into the clear bl
ue waters off the starboard bow. The ship’s engine note altered slightly as she prepared to make a long, smooth loop to steam back east to Southport’s marina. “Even out here on deck, there’s hardly a breath of air,” he muttered. “It’s going to be murder in the sweatbox on the way back.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Max consoled, “at least we get to sit down for the next coupla hours. I think if I tried to dance the way some of the punters do, I’d dribble off the floor in a pool o’ sweat!”

  “Best get down there, all the same. We’ve still got to play all the way home.”

  ***

  “This was a brilliant idea, Brenda! We’ve got an air-conditioned bar, and it’s a damn sight cooler out here than it would have been back on land.”

  “And aah do dee-clare I’ve got the best mint julep aah eva tas-ted!” Brenda drawled, twirling her glass as she caught Dave’s mood. As soon as they’d seen the vessel, they’d decided to enter the spirit of the day and hired 1930s costumes from a fancy-dress shop not far from the ferry terminal. On boarding, they’d been pleased to discover they were far from the only passengers to do so; long chains of imitation pearls and Charleston dresses swirled around the floor, escorted by gentlemen with Brylcreemed hair, false mutton-chop whiskers and straw boaters.

  They’d danced most of the way on the ‘out’ leg, and Dave had made a tactical raid on the bar just before the band took a well-earned breather. As a result, they had fresh cocktails to enjoy on the shaded afterdeck without having to suffer in the scrum which developed immediately the band announced the break.

  “Sounds like the band’s tuning up,” Dave said, tossing back the last drops from his highball glass—memories of a Manhattan which, by now, contained only tiny splinters of what had once been ice cubes. “I’m still thirsty. I need a long drink. That’s the only problem with cocktails, I can’t afford to buy them in pint glasses.”

  They wandered back inside, appreciating the air conditioning despite only being on deck for a few minutes. A slow blues number was being played.

  “Want to dance?” Without waiting for an answer, Dave led Brenda onto the floor, straight into a relaxed, sinuous rumba. A sprinkling of other couples were already dancing, but there was plenty of room for everyone, and Dave was a good, easy lead to follow.

  After a few more slow numbers, the band went up-tempo, and one or two of the couples on the floor began an energetic jive, but Dave shook his head and took Brenda’s arm, heading for the bar.

  “That sort of jazz is too hot for me. I haven’t got the energy to jive.”

  “That goes for me, too,” Brenda agreed. “Even with the air conditioning in here, anything more strenuous than a rumba’s out of the question. I can’t imagine where they get the energy from!”

  Dave hesitated for a second before opting for the fresh, clean taste of ice-cold cider. Brenda nodded her approval and asked for the same.

  “This is for you, Eddie—wherever you are,” murmured Dave, holding his glass at eye level before tasting it.

  Brenda lifted her glass and added her silent toast to absent friends. “Is he going to drop in, once he gets home?”

  Dave nodded. “I told him to phone us when he gets here, maybe we can go out for a meal. I think he’d like to meet Doctor Hart, you know. He’s always been keen on environmental issues.”

  “Are you planning to follow up on this, then?”

  Brenda’s tone carried neither approval nor the opposite as she asked the question, but Dave saw from her eyes that she needed a proper answer, rather than the facetious, flippant nonsense that had been on the tip of his tongue. He took a sip at his glass to buy a few seconds while he rapidly rearranged his thoughts.

  “If our national leaders won’t tackle the problem, I think it’s time we try something different. Doc Hart seems to know what he’s talking about.”

  “It’s going to need some organising, though.”

  “If enough people want to get involved, there’s bound to be someone with the experience. I mean, look how many wanted to buttonhole him after that talk he gave. And if Ed’s keen on doing something practical about global warming and protecting the environment…”

  “I’ll bet he can drag in a few more,” Brenda said. “He could talk the hind legs off a donkey!”

  “Pardon me, ma’am. I just love the word pictures you Brits paint in everyday speech. It’s hard to believe y’all speak the same language we do.”

  Dave raised his gaze beyond Brenda’s shoulder. The cultured, slow drawl of the Southern States came from an apparition in white waiting to be served. With a leisurely gesture, he tipped his hat gravely to Brenda before offering Dave his hand.

  “Errol Dwight, honoured guest in your country these past five years. Like a permanent vacation.”

  “Dave Whelan, and this is my wife, Brenda. You play a mean horn, Mr. Dwight,” Dave said approvingly. “I’ve often wished I’d learnt to play as a kid.”

  “Why, thank you, sir,” Errol said with a grin. “But as for playing, I always said it’s something in the blood. You’re born with it. Yeah, lessons are important, but they’re mostly for the classical gas pro boys. You wanna talk jazz, blues, soul, it’s gotta come from inside. But don’t let me get started or I’ll be talkin’ the hind leg off somethin’ or other.”

  “Still, playing brass must need some real effort. Every jazz band I’ve ever seen, the trumpet player always seems to be the first one to become wet through—even at an outdoor venue,” said Dave, with just a hint of an upward query inflection on the last two words of the sentence.

  Errol nodded. “Said as much to our drummer out on deck a few minutes ago. ’Least this room’s air-conditioned. You don’t need to persuade me the weather’s going crazy. Far as global warming’s concerned, we’re in the deep-brown stuff—my cleaning bill’s proof enough of that.”

  He glanced around as if to make sure nobody else was watching before unbuttoning his jacket to reveal large telltale sweat patches darkening his shirt from both shoulder yokes, creeping insidiously towards the centre of his chest. He quickly buttoned up again and leaned closer.

  “I wasn’t purposely eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhearing. Now, I bet you’re thinking, Damn Yankee, can’t keep his nose outta other people’s business!”

  Errol’s order arrived, which appeared to consist of a half-gallon jug of ice cubes topped with a minimum amount of water. He signalled for four clean glasses and turned away from the bar.

  “Talk to y’all later? Got a few questions I’d like to ask.”

  Dave nodded. “We’ll wait for you to pack away after we dock. Perhaps we could grab a bite somewhere?”

  Chapter Four

  “Got a sorry-looking card from Eddie in this morning’s post, Dave.”

  “Sorry? That’s not like him. Is he still depressed about the weather on the Costa Fortune?”

  “No, I mean literally sorry-looking—the card itself, not what he’s written. It looks as if it’s been through a couple of car washes instead of sorting offices.”

  “I thought he’d already left, heading for the subtropical North?”

  “He has. At least, the card has a French stamp on it, but a lot of what he’s written is runny, blurred—here, see for yourself.”

  Brenda passed the card over. Sure enough, Eddie’s scrawl was more difficult to read than normal, and the original postmark was completely illegible.

  “Weather seems to be…fall…no, following me. Fill…feel like the CB cartoon, always…something…raincl—smudge.” He turned the card back and forth. “Let’s try again.

  “Weather seems to be following me. Like the Charlie Brown cartoon, always under raincloud. Sleep in car, no hotel rooms, campsites total losses. Wine harvest destroyed according to press, other crops equally bad prospects. Expect price rises on basic foods. Home when I get there. Eddie.”

  “Definitely not a happy bunny, then.”

  “You’re right, Brenda. And typical for him to close with a com
ment about the effect on food prices.”

  “He’s a banker, Dave, and single. Some would say he barely qualifies as a human being.”

  “He might not be the easiest person to get along with, but he’s all right if you get to know him, love.”

  “Sorry, darling, there’s just something about him which makes me uneasy. Still, I really think you’d find something positive to say about the devil himself if he came knocking on the door.”

  ***

  At that moment, Eddie was at least as wet as he had been at any time during the twelve days of non-stop rain which had been the one constant feature of his vacation to date. He’d stopped for something to eat and discovered far too late that he’d apparently chosen the one bistro in the whole of France totally incapable of providing any food at all that could be described as edible. Further, it seemed they also had a policy of employing the rudest possible staff, determined to make a virtue out of ignoring customers.

  He’d picked at his déjeuner and left almost the whole of it on the plate. Then he stepped in a puddle up over his ankles on the way back to the car. It shouldn’t really have surprised him at that point to discover he had a flat tyre to change. Sometimes Murphy’s Law kicked in with a spiteful glee, and when he had to turn the ignition key three times before the engine caught, he was very close to losing control altogether.

  A day such as this could only end one way, and of course, he missed the 18:00 Calais departure by less than ten minutes. It gave him no pleasure to watch it leave from his position at the front of the queue for the next crossing. He’d already been warned that without a reservation he wasn’t guaranteed passage on his open-return ticket.

  “That is one reason the open tickets are inexpensive,” the clerk at the ticket desk had explained in laboured and heavily accented English. Eddie could curse as fluently as any Parisian garçon or street urchin, but by this time, he was in no mood to cooperate or feel in any way kindly disposed towards la belle France or her citizens.