The Shooting in the Shop (20 page)

‘Oh yes. I’ve talked about it with lots of people,
and they’ve all put in their two penn’orth.’ The
woman raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Mind you, some
of the theories they put forward were pretty farfetched.’

And your Derek’s
isn’t
? thought Carole. ‘But none
of them’, she asked, ‘had any proof either . . . you
know, something they might have seen to back up
their far-fetched theories?’

‘No. Well, except for Old Garge. And it’s never
wise to believe anything Old Garge tells you.’

‘Old Garge? I’m not sure that I know who you
mean.’

‘Of course you do. Old Garge with the Jack
Russell. The original Fethering beachcomber.’

These details were enough for Carole to know
whom Ruby meant. She had frequently seen an old
boy who seemed to live on Fethering Beach and was
unfailingly accompanied by a Jack Russell. He had
grubby white whiskers and hair, on top of which he
always wore a faded peaked cap which must once
have been blue. Habitually dressed in a canvas coat
and torn jeans, his feet were encased in dilapidated
trainers which, even at the distance Carole normally
kept from him, she felt sure smelt disgusting.

Gulliver and the Jack Russell had had a few barking
matches, but Carole’s instinct was always to divert
her route away from the man. She found something
about him unsettling, and reacted as she might to a
person talking to themselves in the street. Still, she
now had a name for him: Old Garge.

Ruby observed her looking around the expanse of
beach and said, ‘I haven’t seen him the last couple of
days. Maybe there’s somewhere he goes at Christmas.
Be pretty miserable if he just stayed here in his hut.’

‘Are you saying that Old Garge actually lives here
on the beach?’

‘Oh, yes. Most of the time. He watches everything.
Old Garge is the eyes and ears of Fethering Beach.’

Carole felt a little surge of excitement. ‘And where
does he actually live?’

Ruby Tallis gestured across to the mouth of the
Fether, where there were a few fishermen’s sheds
and tumbledown beach huts. ‘Over there. Old Garge’s
is the one called “Pequod”, though goodness knows
what that means.’ Clearly she had never read
Moby
Dick
.

Carole looked at her watch and announced, ‘I
must be getting back. Got to pick poor old Gulliver
up.’

‘Of course. Hope he’s all right.’

‘I’m sure he will be. As you say, he couldn’t be in
better hands than Saira’s.’

‘Well, nice to talk to you, Carole. See you again, no doubt.’

In some moods Carole would have been deterred
by this suggestion. Could she no longer restrict her
morning meetings with Ruby Tallis to a ‘Fethering
nod’? Was she bound to engage in daily conversation
and listen to Derek’s opinions for the rest of her life?

But on this occasion she was too excited by having
become a fully signed-up member of the ‘dog-walking
Mafia’ to indulge such anxieties. After a brief moment
of confusion when she looked around for Gulliver,
Carole walked back along the Promenade towards
Fethering. But she went the long way round, the way
that took her past the huts at the mouth of the Fether.

Pequod was the most dilapidated of all of them. It
smelt of brine and tar, and its paint had long been
stripped away by salty winds.

On a rusty ring fixed to the door hung a large
rusty padlock. The door was closed but not locked.
Strains of classical music could be heard from inside.
Plucking up the new courage given her by being a
member of the ‘dog-walking Mafia’, Carole knocked
on the door. She felt more than ready to meet ‘the
eyes and ears of Fethering Beach’.

‘Come in,’ said a voice, old but remarkably resonant.

Mentally holding her nose in anticipation of
squalor, Carole stepped into Pequod. The first surprise
was the cosy warmth that hit her. The second
was the lack of unpleasant smells; only a slight
resinous aroma from logs on a wood-burning stove
and the smoky tang from oil lamps. Their friendly
light flickered on the spines of the books with which
the whole space seemed to be walled.

In the centre of it Old Garge, dressed in usual
down-at-heel style, sat in a subsiding leather armchair.
On a small table beside him stood a mug of
coffee and, face down, a paperback book of John
Clare’s poetry. The piece of classical music ended
and was followed by speech, suggesting that his portable
was tuned to Radio 3. Curled up on a rug at
the man’s feet sat his Jack Russell, ears pricked at the
arrival of a newcomer, but otherwise welcoming.

‘So . . .’ said Old Garge. ‘Carole Seddon. And what brings you here?’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘Most people in Fethering know most people’s
names, even if they never speak to each other. I’m
afraid the cloak of invisibility in which you imagine
you walk around just isn’t very efficient. Where’s
Gulliver? You’ve usually got Gulliver with you.’

‘He’s at the vet’s.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Just a couple of stitches in his gums. I’m picking
him up later.’

Remembering his manners, Old Garge gestured to
an elderly campaign chair. ‘Please. Would you like
some coffee?’

Carole was suddenly struck by the thought that
there was nothing she would like more. Standing
on the beach and talking to Ruby Tallis had chilled
her to the marrow. She accepted the offer and Old
Garge moved across to the stove on which an enamel
coffee pot stood. He poured a cup of black for her, as
requested, and replenished his own. Then, when they
were both sitting with drinks in hand, he smiled at
her and said, ‘No doubt it was Ruby Tallis who sent
you across here?’

‘Yes, it was. How do you know all this?’

‘That bit I knew just by using my eyes.’ He
gestured to a small window which Carole had not
noticed before, but which she could see offered a perfect
view of the Promenade and most of the beach.

She took a sip of her drink. Contrary to expectations,
it was excellent coffee. In fact, everything about
Old Garge seemed contrary to her expectations.
Because of his appearance, Carole had written him off
as some kind of tramp, unwholesome and probably
not right in the head. As they talked, she discovered
he was intelligent, even cultured.

She couldn’t curb her curiosity about him, and
asked whether the hut was his permanent home.

‘I have a room rented up in Downside for post and
official stuff, but mostly I’m here.’

Carole looked around the space. ‘I didn’t think the
authorities allowed anyone to live permanently in a
beach hut.’

‘You’re absolutely right, they don’t. Any number
of Health and Safety reasons why nobody’s allowed to
live in one.’

‘But—’

‘But I’m good at finding out things. I’ve got a
friend who works for the Fether District Council.
He tips me off when there an inspection due, with
the result that when the inspectors arrive, I’m in my
rented room. I just pop in here for the odd hour, that’s
all, so far as the authorities are concerned.’

Carole was surprised how snug and relaxed she
felt in Old Garge’s company. He seemed to have his
life sorted. Covertly, as she took a sip of coffee, she
scrutinized him. In spite of its whiskery roughness,
his face was rather distinguished and must once
have been handsome. And though his clothes were
torn and discoloured, they seemed perfectly clean.
He looked not so much like a tramp as like someone
playing the part of a tramp. He also seemed to
be aware of – and rather amused by – her scrutiny.

‘Seen everything you want to see?’ he asked, and
she blushed furiously. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mind people looking at me. It’s quite rare these days. Most
of them avert their eyes when they walk past me,
or change direction to avoid walking past me. Best
I usually get is a Fethering nod.’

Carole knew he was teasing her, by giving such an
exact description of her own behaviour.

‘Doesn’t worry me,’ said Old Garge. ‘There’re
plenty of people who do talk to me, so I keep my
gossip reserves well stocked up. So what was Ruby
Tallis telling you about this morning? Or rather,
which of her husband Derek’s opinions was she
telling you about this morning?’

‘We talked a bit about dogs.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘And . . . local events.’

‘Local events, right.’ He nodded, still just slightly
making fun of her. ‘And which local events were you
talking about?’

‘Oh, you know, Christmas and—’

‘I wouldn’t have described Christmas as a local
event. I would have said it was very much an international
event.’

‘Yes, well, but how people spend their individual
Christmases, that’s of local interest.’

‘And how did you spend yours, Carole?’

She was glad to be able to have a normal-sounding
answer to give him. ‘My son and daughter-in-law and
granddaughter came down for lunch on Christmas
Day.’

‘Very nice too.’ He paused for a ruminative sip of
coffee. ‘So you didn’t spend Christmas Day on your
own, like you have the last few?’

Carole turned her face away, unwilling to meet
his gaze. The ‘eyes and ears of Fethering Beach’ were
proving far too well attuned for her taste. Without
looking at Old Garge, she asked, ‘And how did you
spend yours?’

‘None of my days are very different from each
other. Christmas Day I spent here, just like usual.
Walked on the beach with Petrarch – that’s the dog –
doing my usual “Care in the Community” impression,
listened to Radio 3, read some poetry. Do you know,
quite often I read poetry out loud in here. No problem
this time of year. This time of year I can read
away all through the night, if I want to – sleep not
being something I’m very good at these days. In the
summer, though, when I’ve got the doors open and
I’m reading poetry, I do get some funny looks. Parents
putting protective arms round children, hurrying
them away.’ He seemed embarrassed for a moment,
as though an unwanted memory had invaded his
mind, before hurrying on, ‘They seem to feel that
there’s something unnatural about poetry being read
aloud. Makes them think I’m some kind of weirdo.’

‘It sounds as if you don’t mind them getting that
impression.’

‘Well,’ he said, rubbing a scaly hand through his
white whiskers, ‘never does any harm to have a bit of
mystique, does it?’

‘What did you do,’ asked Carole boldly, ‘before you
started on your current way of life?’

‘What makes you think I haven’t always done
this?’

‘Something in your manner.’

‘Ah, but what?’

‘That I can’t currently say.’

The man turned an intense gaze on her. Through
the layers of wrinkles around them, his eyes were
a pale blue, not unlike her own. He seemed to be
assessing whether or not to give her the information
she had asked for. After a moment, Old Garge decided
in Carole’s favour.

‘I used to be an actor,’ he said. ‘In the view of
many people, I might still be an actor.’

‘Playing the part of Old Garge?’

‘Exactly. How very perceptive of you. A role
which suits me, possibly the most comfortable piece
of casting I’ve ever encountered. Old Garge fits me
like a glove.’ He gave her another piercing look. ‘Do
you have anything to do with “the business”?’

Carole felt very proud that she recognized the
expression from conversations with Gaby. ‘My
daughter-in-law is a theatrical agent. Well, that is,
she was, until she had her baby. I dare say she’ll go
back to it soon.’ And yet Carole couldn’t really see
that happening in the near future. Gaby seemed so
happy and fulfilled with Lily that more babies and
full-time motherhood might well keep her away from
the agency for quite a while. To her surprise, Carole
found the prospect appealing.

‘So when’, she went on, ‘did you give up acting?’

‘I thought we’d just established that I haven’t
given it up.’

‘When did you give up being paid for acting?’

‘A better question, but one which I fear I find
rather difficult to answer. It’s not so much that I gave
up acting as that acting gave up me. Calls from my
agent dwindled, reflecting a comparable dwindling
in enquiries for my professional services. Then
I received the news that my agent had died, and I
was faced with the question of whether I should
endeavour to get a replacement or not. I fairly
quickly decided there wasn’t much point. So I moved
out of London and down here, to an area which I have
known and loved since my childhood. That would
be . . . some three years ago . . . probably more. I’ve
reached the age where, in discussions of the past, I
have to double the number I first thought of. And it
may have been some years before that when I last
had a professional booking. I still receive occasional,
minuscule repeat fees for long-dead television series
being sold to Mongolian cable networks, but the last
occasion when I received a fee for a current project is
lost in the mists of time.’

‘Presumably you didn’t act under the name of
“Old Garge”?’

‘No, that would have been a trifle fanciful,
wouldn’t it? Going way beyond the demands of
having a mystique.’ He rose from his seat, reached up
to exactly the right spot in his shelves, and pulled
down a fat book jacketed in two shades of green.
‘
Spotlight
,’ he announced. ‘The actors’ directory. This
volume dates from 1974, which is perhaps the nearest
my career experienced to a “heyday”.’

From much usage, the book opened immediately
at a page revealing the photographs and agent details
of four actors. ‘I graced the “Leading Man” section in
those days. Later I was downgraded to “Character”.’

He held the book across to Carole. In spite of the
changes wrought by time, she had no difficulty in
identifying the right actor. With dark hair and eyebrows,
a long, rather delicate face, Old Garge was still
recognizable. Very good-looking in a dated, matinee
idol way. The name beneath the photograph was
‘Rupert Sonning’.