That We Shall Die: A Jane Madden genealogical mystery Page 6

  After Trinidad, they had moved for their final few nights in Havana. Jane had no memory of the journey but could see them arriving at a heavy wooden door behind which were steep flights of stone stairs. And then breakfast, outside on a balcony that was little more than a railed ledge. Watermelon and ham and cheese, coffee and sunshine and smiles. And looking down on scurrying people in the narrow street, two floors below. Then walking through the old city. Tall buildings, hoardings and dilapidation, interspersed with photogenic restoration and soulless Soviet-era concrete. An open-topped car, hummingbird green with bodywork swooping back to towering, space-age wings, cruising along a wide, sea-sprayed boulevard towards a skyline of 1950s-modern skyscrapers. And in the bullet-holed presidential palace, an eerie tableau, like something from a low-budget waxworks in a run-down seaside town. A jungle setting with the life-sized figures of two armed men in the soiled olive-green of rebellion. Leading the way, the black beret and beard of Che Guevara, though only the crudest approximation of his face. Behind him another great guerrilla hero, Camilo Cienfuegos, barely known outside Cuba, wearing his trademark cowboy hat and far more convincing facial growth. Again, Jane struggled to understand how or why she remembered that name, though she sensed the comandante's image was everywhere in Havana.

  And then she was in an open, sun-blasted square, a flat acreage of tarmac like a vast, abandoned car park. Facing her were two grey government buildings, each adorned with a giant mural laid out in black steel bar against a windowless expanse of bleached wall ten storeys high. To the left, the unmistakable outline of Che in that classic T-shirt pose. To the right, less convincing, less recognisable, his comrade Camilo, the rim of his Stetson framing his head like a halo, confirmation of his status in the confused theology of revolutionary Cuba.

  From the triumphal to the mundane: the one final scene Jane could visualise of the historic, sprawling capital was the inside of a shop. It was cramped and there were at least three desks where men sat hunched and working. She and Dave were being shown an injured hand wrapped in a bloodied bandage. Dave had dropped his watch and smashed it. Back home it would have been beyond hope, but in the make-do-and-mend economy of Cuba, a backstreet jeweller would cut a replacement disc of glass and fit it in an hour. It was to be hoped the 20 dollars worth of tourist currency justified the damage he had inadvertently inflicted on himself.

  And that was it. Holidays were supposed to be about building memories that lasted a lifetime. The most exotic trip Jane had ever taken, and just about all she was left with were Camilo Cienfuegos, how much it cost to repair a broken watch, what was under the bonnet of those iconic old cars, plus the colours of a few birds.

  A confusion of cats

  The 9:45 am from Nottingham made the journey to London in a very respectable 1 hour 40 minutes. Despite the distance and fares, the disparity in house prices meant there were daily commuters on the earlier trains, so Sarah had suggested she and Jane delay their start to avoid the crush. It also meant Sarah didn’t have to get up too early; a morning person she wasn’t.

  The station was also an interchange for the tram network, and for once, Jane left her house in good time for the walk to her nearest stop. She crossed the street at a diagonal and turned into the narrow side road that led through to the park. Halfway down she stopped. Tight against the curb was the big, black car she had accidentally caught with her bag the last time she had met Sarah in town. Jane wasn’t sure why it bothered her but found herself studying it nonetheless. It still looked immaculately clean and polished, and was oddly consistent in its blackness, from the wheels to its leather interior. Jane realised there was a total absence of chromed brightwork. Everything had been finished in the same deep, glossy shade. One of Dave’s favourite Monty Python quotes, ‘Even the white bits were black’, popped into her mind, but she struggled to remember its context. It was something to do with those unpalatable Northern delicacies, black puddings, though on second thoughts she wasn’t even sure it was Monty Python.

  This automotive study in uniformity was presumably a special edition like her MX-5, but that was an exciting shade of green. Jane couldn’t see why anyone would see black as anything other than unimaginatively boring. Nonetheless, it still held her attention. Was this the car she had seen pulling away when she came home from tennis last week? That had certainly been dark, but perhaps not as dark as this, though it was difficult to tell at night. This car also seemed sleeker somehow, like a panther about to pounce. Jane hunted for a badge and discovered she had mistaken her big cats: it was a Jaguar. She sighed ruefully. Jags had been one marque she used to be able to identify, back when they had sculpted bonnets that rippled over pairs of twin headlights. Some of the earlier models even had feline figurines leaping off the radiator. No such helpful cues any more. It was just another car, albeit a fast, expensive one.

  Jane checked her watch and continued on her way, accepting she could no longer tell a Jaguar from a Maserati or a Mercedes-Benz. Or even one of the larger Mazdas. But what did it matter? Everyone had their blind spots and she wasn’t a policewoman anymore.

  In the café across the road from Jane’s house, a man was sitting back from the direct light of the window. He had seen Jane leave and the route she had taken. He felt a sudden flash of concern. Would she notice the car? It did stand out, particularly amongst the low-end junk people drove round here. Should he have parked further away? He took a sip from his tea and reassured himself. No woman he’d ever met knew one end of a car from another. And no game was without risk.

  Leicester Square

  They found an empty table in a quiet carriage in the middle of the train and sat facing each other. For the first part of the journey, Sarah entertained Jane with stories of Duff’s exploits in the seemingly cut-throat world of competitive pétanque. In one, a player had declared his boule closest to the jack even though a one-eyed mole could see it wasn’t. This blatant gamesmanship had irked an opponent to the point of red-faced outburst, and Duff had been forced to step in. His size, together with the fact that the disagreement was between men with a combined age of around 150, prevented an escalation into actual fisticuffs. Sarah tried to do justice to the tale, complete with salient biographical details for the two would-be combatants – they both had form – but conceded it was much funnier when Duff told it. Almost as funny as the cheap plastic and tin trophy he had been awarded for winning the ‘Plate’ competition. (Sarah happily explained this was for second-raters eliminated from the ‘Main’.) The gaudy silver and gold monstrosity sat proudly in the centre of their mantelpiece; at least it did when Duff came home and retrieved it from whichever corner Sarah had relegated it to.

  Jane then relayed the full details of her tête-à-tête with Xander after their tennis match. Sarah apologised for ever thinking it was a good idea to try to get them together. Jane opined, as usual, that what she was looking for was someone like Duff. Sarah’s response, as usual, was that Jane was welcome to the man himself.

  ‘And Tommy’s still out of the question?’ added Sarah, albeit half-heartedly. ‘Lunch today will be strictly business?’

  ‘It’s a catch-up between old friends. With a bit of business tacked on.’

  ‘Friendships often develop into something else,’ persisted Sarah.

  ‘I confess I was feeling a bit down after Xander, and the thought—’

  The train’s horn interrupted with a two-tone warning to some workers on the track.

  Sarah leant forward in her seat. ‘The thought what, darling?’

  Jane raised her palms to signal a halt. ‘It’s not happening. Friendships can easily be ruined. They can be abused as well.’ She turned towards the window as fields and hedgerows flashed by. ‘It would end in tears. I’m scared they’d mostly be Tommy’s.’

  The train was delayed on a signal outside Market Harborough but arrived in London only a few minutes late. Four stops on the Piccadilly Line and they were in Leicester Square tube station. The two women climbed the steps and emerged unde
r overcast skies, though the air felt a degree or two warmer than when they set off. They turned towards the square itself and joined the throng of people heading in the same direction.

  ‘London gets busier every time I come here,’ said Jane, turning sideways to squeeze past a Chinese tourist who was pointing an expensive-looking camera skywards at the Hippodrome’s skeletal steel dome.

  ‘The “great unwashed” as my husband would call them,’ replied Sarah. ‘Mind you, some of the women are wearing some very nice designer stuff.’

  ‘I bow to your greater expertise,’ said Jane.

  Sarah considered entering into a conversation about fashion but decided against. ‘Are we going to be late, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘No, we’re a couple of minutes early. But he’ll be waiting for us – he always is.’

  They reached the door of the restaurant, and to Jane’s surprise, Tommy wasn’t already there. She checked the time and then scanned around, searching for him.

  ‘There he is, darling,’ said Sarah, pointing across the gardens to the central statue of William Shakespeare ringed by plane trees which still clung to much of their summer foliage.

  Jane followed her friend’s arm to see Tommy talking to a tall young woman with mid-brown, shoulder-length hair. She was wearing glasses and the flat shoes of someone who might be self-consciousness about her height. Tommy glanced at his watch, and the woman took both his hands in hers. She clung on to him briefly and then leant up to kiss him on the cheek. He, at least, was taller than her. She relinquished her hold and began walking away towards the far corner of the square. After a couple of steps, she turned to wave. Tommy waved back and watched her go. He then looked at his wrist again and began striding in the direction of Jane and Sarah. When he saw them, he raised his hand in greeting and accelerated his pace.

  Sarah grinned broadly. ‘Well, seems like our Tommy’s got an admirer. Hasn’t he mentioned her to you?’

  ‘It might be Hayley. He’s said they’re working together,’ said Jane, before tugging her friend’s sleeve to ensure her attention. ‘And don’t you go grilling him. He’ll get terribly embarrassed.’

  ‘But did you see her, darling? What, who, she looked like?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Darling, she’s the spitting image of you. From a distance at least. Tall, same hair, same build. She’s got specs and won’t be as attractive as you are, but—'

  ‘Shhh!’ said Jane as Tommy came within earshot.

  He arrived looking flustered. ‘Sorry, am I late? I got held up a bit.’

  ‘So we saw,’ said Sarah. ‘Who’s your friend?’

  Tommy’s eyes dropped towards the pavement. ‘I’ve been helping her on a coding project. We met in a forum online. She had some issues with duck typing in Python—'

  ‘Duck what, darling?’

  ‘Oh sorry, it’s programming stuff. Python is a language and duck typing is… Well, if it walks like a duck and talks like a...’ Tommy looked up and saw two very blank faces. ‘Sorry, it’s all very geeky. Anyway, Hayley got her employer to bring me in on a consultancy basis. Part-time, when they need advice. They’re a bank so the money’s silly, and I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Sarah.

  Jane decided she needed to intervene. ‘Sarah’s not going to join us for lunch, Tommy. She just wanted to say hello before she and her credit card hit Bond Street.’

  Sarah hesitated then grabbed Tommy and kissed him on both cheeks with two loud mwahs. ‘Hello and goodbye, Tommy. It was lovely to see you again. I’ll get Jane to tell me all your news later. Duff sends his regards, by the way. He’s still, well, Duff…’

  After Sarah had walked off in the direction of Piccadilly Circus, Jane and Tommy descended the stairs into the subterranean pizza restaurant that was where they used to meet when he was struggling with his agoraphobia and a journey into Central London was a major hurdle. As ever, the tables were packed, but they were squeezed into a corner next to a column. The waitress, who was of indeterminate nationality though not Italian, gave them menus and then hurried away to serve a large American who had been vigorously waving his arm to attract her attention.

  ‘Hayley looks nice,’ said Jane.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ replied Tommy, fixedly studying the menu despite always ordering the same thing.

  ‘She looks nice and she is nice? I mean a nice person?’

  Tommy lifted his head up. ‘She’s lovely actually. She kind of manages my involvement in the project. Doesn’t let me get too obsessed, you know, overdo things. She’s been really good for me. And she’s not a bad coder either. Bright girl.’

  Jane placed her hand on his. She half-expected him to pull it away, but he left it resting on the table.

  ‘Oh, Tommy, sweetheart! I’m so happy for you. She sounds like just what you needed.’ Jane’s words were genuine, though they didn’t tell the full story of what she was feeling.

  Tommy glanced at her and then back at the menu. ‘Yeh, it’s early days, obviously, but we get on well. And there aren’t many women who could put up with me and my—'

  ‘Nonsense,’ interrupted Jane, ‘she’s a very lucky girl. You’re lovely too. And that bank’s lucky to have you on the payroll as well. Geniuses don’t come cheap.’

  Tommy retrieved his hand and his face flushed. ‘How about you, Jane? How are things with Dave?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him for a while, actually. Sarah’s been trying to set me up with someone at the tennis club. He was okay, but I wouldn’t put him in the lovely class.’

  ‘You’re not seeing him again then?’

  Jane thought she heard concern in Tommy’s voice. ‘God, no!’ she said emphatically. ‘He kept going on about his ex-wife. Well, the divorce isn’t final yet. And he was a bit full of himself and rather opinionated.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About most things. He got onto politics. Moaned a lot about the tax system. I mean, I don’t enjoy paying tax either, but I get that it’s necessary. What’s that quote about death and taxes?’

  ‘“Nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes,”’ answered Tommy after the briefest of pauses. ‘Attributed to Benjamin Franklin but probably earlier. Funny things, opinions. My world, IT, is one of binary absolutes, you know, zero or one, true or false, black or white. I struggle with things that are qualitative, interpretative, subjective...’ There was another short pause. ‘I see a mist of grey where others discard the confusion of detail and counterargument to discern sharp colours... colours shouting so vividly they’re prepared to fight for them.’

  ‘Wow! Where did that come from?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Tommy, looking embarrassed. ‘I must have picked it up somewhere. I just mean some people seem very sure of everything, very sure of themselves.’

  ‘Xander, that was his name, short for Alexander. He certainly was.’

  Tommy’s expression became thoughtful. ‘You see it on Twitter all the time. Posts can be so definite. And blinkered. People on opposite sides can witness the same event, I don’t know, a politician being interviewed on TV, and their assessment will be poles apart. One side will see obfuscation and slipperiness, and the other will see statesmanship and strength. It’s called...’ He stopped mid-sentence. ‘Sorry, I’m rabbiting a bit.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Jane, enjoying her friend’s new-found loquaciousness.

  ‘Well, it’s called confirmation bias. People see what they want to see. And you’ll have both sets of tweets juxtaposed and yet they don’t get it. The other guy is stupid, or just plain evil. They don’t see their own prejudice but do see it in everyone who doesn’t agree with them. The Right think the BBC is full of woke lefties, and for the socialists it’s the home of establishment lackeys. It can’t be both. Or maybe it can, who knows?’

  Tommy fell silent, prompting Jane to respond in what she hoped was support.

  ‘There are those who say you should have an opinion on everything. Though I suspect
they might struggle with your duck, python things.’ She grinned. ‘Trouble is, they must meet people all the time who are better informed, better qualified. But I’m not sure how often they back down and say, “I hadn’t thought of that.” The philosophy seems to be that you keep fighting your corner. Winning is more important than being right. Or maybe it’s blind self-belief, or the conviction that everyone else is making it up as they go along as well.’ She hesitated and swept a non-existent strand of hair off her forehead. ‘I’m like you, I’m afraid. I tend to see both sides of the story too. But... the world needs decisive people or nothing would ever get done. That said, you wouldn’t have conflict and wars either.’

  ‘Here’s another quote for you,’ said Tommy. ‘“There are few, if any, issues where all the truth and all the right and all the angels are on one side.” JFK wrote that but was prepared to risk nuclear Armageddon during the Cuban Missile Crisis. I guess history and politics are difficult. You have to take a punt, be brave. I’m glad I’m just a programmer.’

  Jane leaned her head sideways and briefly touched it against Tommy’s shoulder. ‘I bet Hayley isn’t the argumentative sort,’ she said.