Chapter Thirty-Two The Spy Who Loved Me
‘You need to bunk off for the afternoon,’ my mum whispers down the phone.
‘I can’t,’ I tell her huffily.
‘Yes, you can, you’re the boss,’ she insists.
‘I’m a partner and that means I have to show responsibility, which means no bunking off.’
‘Oh, so Charlie hasn’t bunked off to sort out his wedding at all this year?’ Mum makes a point.
‘That’s different, he’s been badly let down,’ I tell her. ‘Besides which, a wedding is important and takes a lot of organising.’
‘How do you know that reason I need you here isn’t important?’ Mum asks, not giving up.
‘The last time you wanted me to bunk off it was because you’d found a freezer full of yellow-sticker turkey crowns but had no one to drive you home,’ I remind her.
‘They’d have come in handy for Christmas.’
‘It was the Boxing Day sale.’
‘Well, your father and I got an awful lot of curries and pies from them that year, but this is nothing to do with shopping and everything to do with you.’ I can almost feel her prodding me from a distance. ‘Now, get on down here — I’ll meet you in the Three Swans on the canal.’
I sigh with despair as my mother puts the phone down on me. It’s late in the afternoon and we only have another hour until closing, so I explain the conversation to Josie and Charlie and ask if it’s okay to leave early. They’re both happy and even excited by the idea.
‘I wonder what scheme she’s cooked up now,’ says Josie. ‘Do you think she’s found something else to add to her bucket list?’
‘Dear Lord, I hope not,’ I tell them as I shut down the PC and collect my things.
‘We want a full rundown in the morning,’ Charlie yells as I head out the door.
* * *
The Three Swans is in a fairly idyllic location next to a lock. As I walk towards it from the car park, I notice flowers starting to bud and the air smelling fresher. Despite the fact that I’m meeting my mother, it feels good to be out of the office. I see a group of women on the canal bank striding along with walking poles; they’re chatting and laughing as they walk and I wonder whether I could join something like that when Patty leaves. The thought of sensible boots and waterproofs would have her needing a lie down before she’d started. Then again, with the pace these women are going at, I’m exhausted just watching — maybe that isn’t my new thing after all.
Compared to the late-afternoon sunshine outside, the interior of the pub is quite dark and I can’t see Mum anywhere. Typical that she’s dragged me out and isn’t even here herself. She had to have driven here and that’s surprising too — normally Dad or I would be called on to chauffeur. Unless she’s on a date from that ridiculous website Patty signed her up to. I panic slightly, thinking my mum might be trying to get out of a dangerous situation, and grab at my phone, dialling her number.
Somewhere behind me the theme tune to Mission: Impossible starts playing very loudly and I spin round ready to ask them to turn it down when I see my mum skulking in a corner booth. She’s wearing dark sunglasses with her phone blaring full blast. I end the call and the music finishes as I do. Mystery solved.
‘You’ve changed your ringtone,’ I say, walking towards her. ‘I didn’t realise you knew how to do that.’
‘I got next door’s grandson to do it for me,’ Mum explains. ‘Good, isn’t it?’
‘Distinctive,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll always know whose phone is ringing.’
‘Oh, it’s only on for when you call,’ Mum says.
‘Why? And why are you wearing those glasses and that old trench coat? I thought you’d thrown it in the charity bag.’
‘Get me a bitter lemon and I’ll tell you everything,’ says Mum, removing the sunglasses. ‘I’ve worked up a bit of a thirst today.’
Thinking it’ll be midnight before I get any information out of this woman, I nevertheless head to the bar and get us drinks and crisps. I know that this will be her next request and I’m not jumping up and down all afternoon. Mum dives into the snacks then takes a long sip of her drink and begins.
‘I’ve been doing some detective work,’ she says. ‘I needed to be undercover.’
She taps the side of her nose and I gather that’s why she’s wearing that old coat. She once wore it to a murder mystery party when she went as the amateur sleuth.
‘Nothing says inconspicuous more than a glamorous seventy-year-old with a purple handbag and an old coat,’ I tell her.
‘Nothing says inconspicuous more than a seventy-year-old, full stop,’ says Mum. ‘I could probably have gone around naked.’
I grimace at the thought but she does make a valid point, and after all, I never spotted her when I walked in.
‘So why are you doing detective work?’ I ask, thinking we should really get to the point before the pub closes.
‘To save your love life,’ asserts Mum. ‘Someone has to do something and I’m probably best qualified.’
I pause, not sure whether I want to hear any more of this but also curious as to what on earth she can be up to. Not being a cat, I think I’m perfectly safe to let the curiosity win today.
‘Go on,’ I tell her cautiously.
‘It makes no sense to me,’ she says. ‘That Michael fellow being keen one minute and spooking you the next.’
‘Ghosting,’ I say, but she brushes it away with a ‘whatever’.
‘I saw the pictures from New Year and he looked really happy,’ she continues. ‘You all looked as if you were having a roaring time and I can’t believe that a man on his own doesn’t want a little more of that.’
She isn’t telling me anything I didn’t know or hadn’t thought.
‘We did have a good time but it happens, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘You might have looked at pictures of me and David and thought we were having a good time but neither of us really were.’
‘Anyone with half a brain could have seen that,’ replies Mum. ‘Not sure why it took you so long to figure it out.’
There’s tough love and there’s my mum’s love — which would have Bear Grylls crying in his coffee. I don’t mention that Patty had it figured out too. There’s always a bit of competitiveness between my mum and my friend as to who knows what’s best for me. Apparently, I have no clue.
‘Shall we get to the point?’ I ask, hoping to avoid a dissection of that particular failed attempt at a relationship.
‘Anyhow, as I said, it didn’t make sense to me and I decided I’d try to get to know him better and work it all out.’ She pauses and somewhere in the ether there’s a drumroll just for her. ‘So I followed him.’
‘You did what?’
‘I put him under surveillance to find out what on earth was going on,’ Mum repeats as if it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
‘When did you do all of this?’ I ask.
‘Last night and then today,’ she tells me. ‘Your dad came with me last night although he didn’t know why I was doing it. He thought he was just having a nice trip to the pub. Michael’s never met me or your dad so there was no danger of him recognising us, if that’s what you’re bothered about.’
There are many things that bother me about this situation and that was on the list but fairly low down. My mother being outed on one of her schemes would probably do her good.
‘Do you want to know my findings?’ she asks, pulling a little notebook from her handbag. I simply shrug and let her go ahead.
‘Nineteen hundred hours, suspect leaves his house and gets into a taxi,’ she begins. ‘I know he’s not a suspect but I wasn’t sure what else to call him.’
‘Wasn’t Dad suspicious that you were waiting outside someone’s house?’ I ask.
‘I told him I had my reasons,’ replies Mum. ‘He knows not to ask when I say that.’
This much I know. Throughout my life, when Mum has done something weird or wonderful and I’ve asked Dad about it, his weary reply has always been, ‘Oh, you know Mum — she has her reasons.’
She could probably be caught digging a body-sized hole in the garden and Dad would accept this explanation. I’m distracted for a moment wondering whether her having an affair falls into this category.
‘Are you okay?’ asks Mum, bringing me back to the present.
‘Yes,’ I tell her then ask the other question on my mind. ‘How did you know where he lived?’
‘He’s on Cross Road where you used to live and he has a cat with white paws that sits in the window,’ Mum says as if I’m crazy to ask. ‘I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I failed at the first hurdle.’
The cat often stayed at my house and Mum would definitely have recognised her, so I concede this. It’s a good point, well made.
‘We pursued the suspect to this pub, where he ordered a pint and a gin and tonic then sat over there by the window.’ Mum points out the seat in question.
‘So, he was meeting someone,’ I say. ‘And a GT probably means it was a woman.’
‘Hold on there, Miss Marple,’ Mum tells me, wagging her finger. ‘Technically, the suspect was meeting someone and a woman entered the pub shortly afterwards.’
‘Did you recognise her?’ I ask.
‘No, but she was quite plain looking,’ Mum says. ‘No one would have given up my daughter for her.’
As much as I hate the denigration of any woman, I’m slightly boosted by Mum’s little compliment. Yet again, I know how shallow and needy this makes me appear.
‘It sounds as if he has, Mum,’ I tell her, mentally pulling on my big girl pants. ‘And I’m happy for him. I just wish he’d had the courage to tell me.’
‘Getting ahead of yourself again, Angela. I’m not finished yet.’ Mum pulls herself up tall in the seat, cradling her hands in front of her like a judge. ‘You see, I don’t think there was anything going on between them. There was no spark.’
I tell her all about Richard Branson’s advice and how a spark isn’t everything — love takes time to build and is about doing small things together. She waves my sage’s advice away with one hand.
‘He should stick to vacuum cleaners,’ she says.
‘That’s Dyson,’ I tell her. ‘Branson does space flight.’
‘Even more useless,’ she replies. ‘Now, shall we get back to the point?’
I nod and tell her I’d love to.
‘Little things give it away,’ Mum continues. ‘Look around this pub now and tell me who is having a good time and who isn’t.’
I do as I’m told and see those little things — the brush of a hand, the holding out of a chair, the genuine smiles and laughter. Those having a good time share food easily and seem to flow around each other like waltzing on the dance floor — it’s easy and effortless. And on the other hand, the silent sitting opposite each other glued to their phones, the folded arms and pursed lips. I know all of this as I used to watch other couples all the time when I was out with my ex. We used to guess which ones would last and which wouldn’t. Mum has made her point and I tell her so.
‘So, tell me what you saw with Michael,’ I ask.
‘I saw a keen woman — constantly reaching out to touch him on the arm and laughing at whatever he said. I also saw an indifferent man — or maybe the look was confused?’ says Mum. ‘He looked puzzled when she kept laughing at him and he certainly didn’t like being touched. I asked your dad what he thought and he said that it looked as if the bloke couldn’t wait to get away.’
‘How long did they stay?’ I ask.
‘Well, after she’d finished her drink, she got up to buy a round and he obviously just ordered a half-pint,’ Mum reads from her notes.
‘Two things to note there,’ says Mum but I’m way ahead of her.
‘He didn’t leap up and insist on buying the drink and he didn’t order a pint because he didn’t want to extend the evening.’
‘You’re learning, sweetheart. Then, when the woman was in the bathroom, he took out his phone and rang someone. When she returned he held the phone up as if he’d just got a message and had to go. The woman looked crestfallen but seemed to be making other suggestions. He just kept shaking his head and stood up. She leaned in to kiss him and he quickly presented the side of his cheek.’
I’m liking the sound of all this, but just because he was with someone he didn’t gel with that night doesn’t explain why he ditched me without a word. I say all of this to Mum.
‘I know,’ she says thoughtfully. ‘And it could be that this is who he is; you said he was widowed, so maybe he’s just trying out a number of women to find someone to replace his wife. He might be extremely efficient at sussing them out and when he knows it won’t work just cuts his losses instantly. At least he doesn’t string them along.’
‘He doesn’t explain why it’s over either,’ I remind Mum.
‘Well, Operation Edith isn’t finished yet,’ she says.
‘Edith?’
‘From Downton Abbey — she has the worst luck in love ever,’ Mum tells me, clutching her palm to her chest. ‘Even worse than you.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
‘No need,’ she continues. ‘I’m going to continue this surveillance for the rest of the week and I will get to the bottom of what happened between you even if I have to lock him up in the cellar and shine a light in his eyes.’
‘Mum—’ I start to protest but she gives me a wave of the hand.
‘No need to thank me,’ she says. ‘It’s no bother at all.’