It's All Relative

Sunday 16th.

The man on the bridge looked down and liked what he saw. He always did. This was the fourth, or maybe the fifth time he had made a special trip from further up the coast to see it. It was so English, and he felt a slight buzz of patriotic pride. Not fashionable these days, he was well aware of that, but he wasn’t ashamed. It was a generational thing and it made him happy. The only difference between today and his recollection of last year was that today the sun was shining. An English summer and it was hot. Global Warming, of course. The papers were full of it. It was like the Costa del Sol where he and Jane went on their last holiday together.

Yes, time to take off your jacket, Martin, old boy. He could remember when he was a youngster, it was considered daring for a man to remove his tie. I know if you look at old photos of seaside holidays, immediate postwar like the first he could recall, in a packed-out Blackpool that I’m thinking about, and invariably it was men in grey trousers and tweedy sports jackets, and many of them had still not even loosened their ties, never mind taking them off.

Go and see if the little café is still there down that street. And if it is, hope their tuna salad is as good as last year’s.

Now down at street level, he can make out who they are. He’d seen them from higher up, and among the masses of holidaymakers in their casual, anything-goes clothes - the black skirts and blazers made a striking contrast. Obviously, they were dressed alike in some sort of uniform, and the bright red badges hanging around their necks confirmed it. On his side of the stream, he could see there were two women, one a pretty teenager probably in her first job – the other obviously in charge and clearly keen to make her seniority obvious. On the roadway on the other side of the metal fence he could see another pair in black, this time with a young man looking like the boss of his older, female companion.

Got it. “Bible Bashers.” That’s what they were. The black clothing gave it away. You’re wrong Marty. Losing your touch. His initial reaction was miles out. No, he heard enough as he walked past the first pair. Some sort of survey, Tourist Office, or something. Officially sponsored. Not commercial. Bored out of their minds with much better things to do with their time on a swelteringly hot Sunday in July. Much happier on the beach or in the water. Ah, that’s the street I’m looking for. Outside in the shade would be nice. A long cold drink would go down a treat. Diet Coke with a slice of lemon. Not driving today. A pint later I think, Marty. Lovely, jubbly. Maybe see you next year, eh? Who knows?

*****

The middle-aged man didn’t look like a holiday maker. Tall, smartly dressed he wasn’t what the locals usually referred to – but rarely to their faces – as a grockle, In a darkish business suit he could have been a solicitor sneaking away from his office for a brief break and to top up his tan, From the top of the road he had worked his way down following the stream looking for somewhere he could sit for the rest he felt he must have soon.

His thoughts flashed back to a phrase he’d heard his mother and father use years ago. They’d talked about a ‘Continental Sunday’. He remembered they weren’t thinking in a flattering way either. To them not going to church and not supporting the handful of shops which were open on Sunday’s was what Society should do. To be honest, it was mam who was more concerned that his father. For him a blind eye could easily be turned, or at least he could look the other way.

The changes between then and now were remarkable. Looking around at the crowds massing around he marvelled. Come on James, old boy. It’s the 21st Century. Enjoy what’s going. Not easy with Shirley as she was, but that’s life. At least Diedre was with her mother back in Brum while he was down here.

God, he was hot and sticky. At least the B & B had a shower. That’s something to look forward to. Lucky perhaps to get in anywhere at such short notice. Now, please, please let me find a seat before I drop.

Eureka!!!

*****

“Hello there. I take it this seat’s free, is it? Sorry pal, you enjoy your kip. It’s too hot to do much more than rest and a little nap won’t do you any harm. Just ignore me. I’ll try not to disturb you.”

Now I wonder what they want. They’re either selling summat, collecting for a charity I’ve never heard of, or it’s a marketing thing.

. Keep your eyes shut. Don’t encourage ‘em, James. Don’t speak unless they speak first. Pretend you’re dozing.

“Hello, sir. I must say you look so comfortable and relaxed. Allow me to introduce ourselves. “

“I’m Margaret, and my young colleague here is Debby. We’re part of a team from the local council and we are talking to people here in the town about their experience on holiday. I take it you are on holiday, sir?”

The way they simultaneously showed their badges– with near perfect timing - pointed to some time spent in practising, just as Margaret’s reading introduction and little speech showed rehearsal time and some coaching.

“What that boils down to, sir, is that we think that you two gentlemen look so relaxed and content and just how we want our visitors to look like when they visit us, that a photograph or two of you on your bench could look great in next season’s guide to the town. How would you feel about that?”

There’s no way I can dodge it now. Here goes.

“Oh, hello. I was just starting my little nap. No, this chap isn’t with me – I’ve no idea who he is. Well away though. At least he’s in the shade otherwise he could get burned in this sun. Tell me again what you wanted. What are you collecting for?”

The younger woman, just a kid really, giggled, and the one called Margaret glared at her. Probably in her late fifties was James’ opinion. Far too much makeup and lipstick. Even so, one must remain polite and behave properly. There must be someone, somewhere who loves her. Probably there’s a dog in her life. Not likely to be a man. That’s cruel James. She can’t help how she looks. Be decent now.

“No sir, you probably didn’t catch what I said. We’re from the local council.” – on cue two brightly coloured cards hanging round their neck were waved and the wearers came close enough to read them. James joined in the little charade by looking at the older woman’s ID first.

“Thank you and thank you. too. And what do you want to ask me?

For the next several minutes James was asked a set of questions from the council-approved list.

“Name? Had he been down here before, was he a day visitor or staying locally? Why particularly here instead of - say - Torbay? What particularly did he like in the town?”

His replies were predictable, no doubt ticks went in the right boxes, and the women went off for their break with a card with a name and address on it and a less than full story as to a reason for this individual to be here. James P. Shawe stressed that the ‘e’ was important and briefly hinted that a family matter was his main reason to be currently in such a delightful part of the world.

It wasn’t the first time he had been approached like that, and he’d found that promises made for samples, catalogues, pictures, and a cast-iron copper-bottomed promise to receive a £50 voucher clearly had been unlucky with the choice of carrier - be they Royal Mail or someone else.

Monday 17th

Mr. Shawe – the Mr. Shawe with the e – on the day following having his photo taken and being ‘surveyed’, had had a busy, tiring and fruitless day.

It was Monday and the first working day of the week. He’d been to the police, the Council office and several departments there. He’d even thought of a private detective, but Columbo didn’t have a local branch when he asked around. So, it wasn’t Plan B, more like G or H. The local paper.

He found the South Hams Oracle next door to a Spar shop just off a pretty little square with a church and a tiny grassy area that had recently been mowed,

In the heat the street door to the office was open and inside he could see a counter on which was a large electric fan that seemed to be set for maximum speed. A young man, seventeen or so and wearing thick horn-rimmed spectacles popped up promptly from his seat and offered to help.

“I’m looking for help regarding a missing person who may be in the area.”

“Well Sir, you’re as likely to get what you want here as anywhere, but not from me directly. My name is Mark, I’m new to the job and to the area and I personally won’t be much help. Mrs Gregory, our editor, a local lady, would be perfect to assist, but she won’t be back for about another five minutes. You’re very welcome to come and sit in the cool office, and I’d be happy to make you a cuppa. How’s that?”

“Perfect, young fellow-me-lad. Tea please, two sugars and no milk. I’ll sit over there near the fan. Alright?” The youngster didn’t have time to object before Shawe was relaxing in a comfortable, padded swivel chair. Mrs Gregory returned, introductions were made, Mark was thanked for ‘the best cup of tea I’ve had since I arrived in Devon’ and James found himself sitting opposite a kindly faced, plump sixty ‘ish lady with a surprisingly cultured accent.

James told his story at his own speed with just the occasional question to break the flow. Mrs Gregory made notes but barely spoke until she summarised.

“So, Mr Shawe, your wife is dying of cancer in a Birmingham hospital, and you are trying to trace her brother – a man you do not know. Your wife and her brother were parted not long after birth and then adopted legally and separately. You do not know the man’s surname, but your wife’s name was, before marriage to you, Shirley Shadwellton Thompson. But that was given her by her adoptive parents who are long dead. So far you have tried all the usual agencies without success. We really are clutching at straws, aren’t we?”

“And the name ‘Shadwellton’ is why you are here, now. Because there is a hamlet of that name nearby. Yes?”

James nodded. “I know how much it means to Shirley. There’s nowhere else to try if I go back with no news. It might finish her.”

“Well, Mr Shawe. I’m a local. Lived here all my life, and I’ve not once run across the use of the name at any christening I recall. And that’s a lot of christenings gone through our pages. You’ve tried the church registers?”

A second nod from a man who had slumped lower into his chair. He looked utterly defeated.

“I can see how much it means to you but, sadly, I cannot help. I know no-one with the name you’re looking for. I’m so, so sorry. All I can offer you is a cup of tea and a biscuit before you go. Mark, tea and biscuits, please for Mr. Shawe. I’ll have the same.”

The young man came in with a tray. “That girl from the Council has just been round with some post and stuff. I’ll fetch it in now if that’s OK. It just needs sorting first.”

James, clearly trying hard to control his emotions, spoke. “Good lad you have there. Keen. Deserves to get on.”

Moments later Mark was back and handed Mrs. Gregory an assortment of items in a tray. He picked up the top item.

“I’ve got a photograph here of you, Mr. Shawe. The Tourist Office people took it. They send us copies just to keep us informed. It a good likeness of you.”

He passed it across to Mrs. Gregory. She looked at the print, looked at the back of the card, then without a word passed it across to her visitor,

Two men were on the photograph. James, with an uneasy ‘I don’t like having my picture taken like this” look with his fixed grin, and at the other end of the seat was the sleeping man.

There were two names on the back of the card: James S. Shawe and Robert Shadwellton Livingstone.

*****

Mrs. Gregory was on the phone for several minutes. Her summary when she finished was immediate and very clear.” The reason the photo was like this is that the other man had died there and the police were called. Obviously, you had gone by then. I’ll give you a name and a phone number at the Police Headquarters. You’ll find her - it’s a woman - very helpful.”

“I don’t think I can do any more to help you, but it looks to me as if you might possibly have found your brother-in-law.”

“Mark, take my keys, bring my car back here and drive Mr, Shawe round to see Inspector McGee. It must be her. Clear? There’s no need to wait afterwards. Come straight back when you’ve done that.”

Looking excited, the youngster picked up the car keys and left. A few words passed between Frank and the editor, and they waited the couple of minutes until Mark returned to collect his passenger before driving off.

Ten minutes or so later he was back and being questioned by his boss.

“Well Mark. Don’t pretend you don’t know what’s going on. I’d be very disappointed if I had known you weren’t listening all the time to our discussion. So, did I forget anything? Was everything done as it should have been? Go on, tell.me.”

“If I’m honest, Mrs. P – no. You didn’t do what I would have thought was most important. It’ll obviously make a good tale and might make the nationals if we push it out, but you didn’t get exclusive rights signed up for us.”

“Mark, you’ve done very well. You have just said what I hoped you would say. I know how it looked and sounded, but, actually you’re wrong”.

“Before Mr Shawe went he had signed the necessary form, properly printed, with all the standard legal jargon. It’s all done and dusted. You didn’t know they were there, but I always keep a couple of blank forms – just in case – ready in my desk, and there’s always one in any handbag or whatever I‘m using when I’m away from the office.”

“Well done, Mark. Go home now and we’ll talk more about your future another time. You can lock-up tonight and I’m going home to have a couple of long, cold drinks.”