There is no pub in Stone called the Longboat. I chose the name because Stone is a canal town.
For any readers not from the UK and consequently not familiar with English slang words, a ‘sprog’ is an affectionate term for someone’s child and ‘Duck’ is an affectionate address in common use in Staffordshire.
It was quiet tonight. Only a handful of regulars sat at the tables of the Longboat in the small Staffordshire town of Stone. They talked in quiet voices or read the local paper, the Staffordshire Sentinel. Occasionally one would leave his seat and come to the bar to buy a drink, or a round, then go back and that would be that. Melissa Talbot polished a glass, discreetly observing the man who sat at the end of the bar, nursing half a pint of Guinness. In fact she had hardly taken her eyes from him since he came in. He was tall and thin with black hair and dark eyes which gave the impression of being hooded. He’d asked very politely for the Guinness, and a menu, and perched himself on a stood as far away from everyone else as he could sit. Now he sat studying the menu, sitting so still he could have been a statue. Melissa remembered her Dad saying a bloke who drank halves was mean. She wondered if this one was. Perhaps he was driving. Well she’d see how big a spender he was when he came to order from the menu.
Melissa had just returned from asking Steve, the student who worked for her, if he would fetch another bottle of Famous Grouse from the cellar and put it up on its optic. On her way back she noticed a spillage on the floor and ducked beneath the bar to look for a cloth. When she looked up the tall, dark stranger was standing in front of her.
“Hello,” she beamed. “Ready to order?” She grabbed a pen and a small notepad. “What can I tempt you with tonight?”
“I’d like the veggie burger, a jacket potato and salad please.”
Well that wasn’t the cheapest option on the menu, Melissa thought as she wrote it all down. Perhaps he wasn’t really mean. She suddenly realised what a beautiful voice he had, deep and soft and like black velvet. When she looked up she felt herself blush and cursed herself for it. Gracious, it wasn’t as if he was a looker... although thinking about it, he was striking in a Heathcliffian kind of way. If only he was not so pale and gaunt and haunted-looking he could be quite a dish.
“I’ll bring it over to you. Can I get you another drink?”
“Yes, I’ll have another half of Guinness please. And could I have a receipt for the food? I need it for my expense claim.”
Oh dear, was that why he hadn’t chosen the cheapest option? Because his employer was paying? That augured well for her father’s theory.
She tore the page from the notebook and handed it to Steve, who had just finished setting up the Famous Grouse.
“Take this to the kitchen would you, Steve,” she said. “Where are you going to be sitting, sir?”
“I’ll stay at the bar.”
She placed the Guinness on the bar and picked up the card reader, watching as he drew a debit card from a leather notecase and tapped it on the reader. He had nice hands as well as a nice voice. She wondered what he did. Not a manual job, that was for sure. Yet he didn’t look like a professional. His clothes looked cheap, though they were clean and fitted him reasonably well. She wished she could see his shoes. You could always tell a man’s habits by how polished his shoes were, her Mum had always said.
She handed him a copy of the till receipt.
“Thank you. Do you happen to have accommodation here?”
“Sorry, I don’t do rooms. Have you tried anywhere else?”
“I’ve tried the White Swan and the Crown and Anchor and the one on the canal – I think it’s called the Star. None of them had a room available.”
“The Crown Hotel?” Melissa suggested.
“I don’t want to stay anywhere too expensive, my employer has a very strict policy on expenses.”
“Well there aren’t many other places in Stone which have rooms. Have you got a car? You might do better in Stafford – it’s the county town and it’s much bigger than Stone.”
“My van broke down on the A34. I had to be towed to a garage. I got a lift here. I have to pick up the van in the morning.”
“Where have you come from?”
“I’m making for Carlisle,” he replied. “I won’t be there till lunchtime tomorrow now.”
“Hm. You’d have to get a bus or a train to Stafford and the buses are only hourly at this time at night. And then there’s no guarantee you’d find anywhere. Would you like me to ring round a few more places and see if I can find you a room?”
“That would be very kind of you. I’ll reimburse you for the calls.”
Melissa waved her hand.
“I’ll be pleased to do it for you. Steve! When the gentleman’s food’s ready would you bring it out to him please? I’m just going to make some phone calls.”
The man took his Guinness and went back to his place at the bar. He bent down, took a magazine from the black bag beside the stool, spread it out and began to read. Melissa reached for the telephone directory.
Melissa loved people. She had desperately wanted to take over the pub after her father died. She’d helped him run it from the time she left Stafford College at eighteen, having botched her A-levels. What was the point of them anyway? She didn’t want to go to university, she wanted to be here, with her Dad, serving the customers. She’d run the place on her own – except for Steve’s help in the evenings – for two years now. Most of the customers were locals though sometimes people travelling on the M6 broke their journey in Stone for lunch, or just a leg-stretch round the shops. It was an attractive little town and had more character than the larger county town six miles south. It wasn’t often that strangers appeared in the evenings, though.
By the time she had tried all the pubs within walking distance of Stone town centre she was feeling desperate. Either they didn’t do accommodation or they were full up or they weren’t open for bed and breakfast so early in the year. She came back behind the bar and looked across at the man. He was busy with his veggie burger, still reading his magazine. She waited until he had finished then went to take his empty plate.
“Thank you,” he said.
As she picked it up she glanced at the magazine. Thank goodness – she had wondered if it was something unsavoury but it appeared to be some kind of engineering publication.
“I’m sorry, I’ve tried all the pubs in the area and had no luck. Could you take a train or a taxi to Stoke-on-Trent and see if you have better luck there?”
He thought, obviously considering his options.
“Look,” she said after hesitating for a moment, “you can stay here if you like. I can find you a bed but it’s not a bed and breakfast arrangement. In the morning I’ll give you the run of the kitchen and you can shift for yourself. I won’t charge you. What do you say to that?”
He turned to her and for the first time a hint of a smile touched his face.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “Thank you.”
Oh dear, she hoped she wasn’t doing anything silly. She didn’t know him from Adam, didn’t know where he came from – he hadn’t answered her question, she noticed – and all she knew about him was that he travelled for his work and was heading for Carlisle. And yet she sensed there was nothing to worry about. Her instincts were telling her he was safe, that he wouldn’t do her any harm. Anyway, she could hardly turn him out at eleven o’clock and let him wander the streets all night. It was pouring with rain. And now she’d seen him smile she really was rather taken with him.
It would not be the first time one of the pub’s customers had stayed with her. Lonely after her husband left her for a slim blonde – something Melissa would never be with her bulky figure and mousy locks – she welcomed company from whichever direction it came. She had only one rule. She never slept with married men. A shock suddenly ran through her. She didn’t know if this one was married or not. He didn’t wear a wedding ring but that meant nothing.
Later Melissa edged her way to his end of the bar.
“All right?” she beamed.
He looked up.
“Fine thanks.”
“Another drink?”
“No, really, I’m fine.”
“Coffee? Tea?”
“No thank you.”
“What do you do? For a job I mean.”
“I’m a service engineer.”
“You travel a lot?”
“All my working life is spent travelling from place to place.”
“Just Britain?”
“Sometimes abroad.”
“Sounds interesting. Doesn’t make for a settled home life, though, does it?”
“I don’t mind.”
“You’re not married?”
“No.”
With a smile of satisfaction Melissa began to polish another glass.
“Time please. Come on, Charlie, you’ll have to go home to the dogs and sprogs some time, there’s no point in putting off the evil moment.”
An elderly man eased himself out of his seat and grabbed a raincoat.
“Grand-sprogs,” he corrected her. “The dogs are less trouble.”
“Take care, Charlie,” she called as he went through the door.
“Goodnight, Duck,” called another voice. “Here, lend us your brolly.”
“See you tomorrow, love, take care.”
“’Night, Duck.”
Melissa turned to the man who was now standing beside the bar.
“You get called Duck a lot in Staffordshire,” she said. “It’s a term of affection. Where do you come from? You haven’t got a local accent.”
“I’m based in the Midlands,” he said.
And Melissa knew better than to ask exactly where.
“It’s still raining,” she declared, drawing the curtains in the cosy lounge upstairs. “Look, there’s only one bedroom, I use the other one as an office. And there’s only one bed.”
“I don’t have a problem with sharing it.”
“That’s fine, then. Now, would you like anything before we turn in? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’d appreciate a shower.”
“I’ll show you where the bathroom is. And I’ll get you some clean towels. There’s a bathrobe on the back of the door, you can borrow it if you like. Don’t worry, my ex left it behind, it isn’t frilly or anything like that.”
He picked up his bag and followed her.
He sounded like an educated man, Melissa thought as she put pillow cases on the two pillows she had fetched from the top of the wardrobe. As she arranged her pillows on one side of the bed and his on the other the thought suddenly struck her that she hadn’t asked his name.
She almost bumped into him on his way out of the bathroom. He was wearing the bathrobe.
“That fits you well,” she declared. “Do you know, I hadn’t thought to ask your name.”
“It’s David,” he said. “David Rosslyn.”
In the bathroom Melissa threw off her clothes and showered quickly. She slipped on a thin nightie and her own bathrobe and, on a whim, dabbed a little perfume behind each ear. Then, full of anticipation, she switched off the light, closed the door and went into the bedroom.
So that was that, Melissa thought. The finest hour that never was. When she went into the bedroom David was already in bed. He was lying on his back and was obviously soundly asleep. For a moment she stood looking down at him, mingled irritation and disappointment in her mind. But the more she looked at him the less she could feel irritated. There was something hauntingly sad, something vulnerable, about him. Apart from a scattering of black hair on his chest he was almost wholly white, and so thin his ribs and hip bones made his skin look shiny as they protruded. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she climbed over him and settled down on the other side of the bed. Then she pulled the duvet over both of them, reached up with one arm to pull the light cord and settled down.
In the morning she woke and rolled over, expecting to find a warm body beside her. Instead her arm fell on an empty mattress. She opened her eyes, squinting through the half-light. Recollection dawned on her – David had said he might be gone before she was awake, he had to rise early to fetch his van and be on his way. Fine, she’d said, and showed him where everything was in the kitchen. She shuffled over to the other side of the bed and stood up, wondering if he was still about.
Nothing appeared to have been disturbed in the kitchen. There were no used tea-bags in the bin, no coffee mug or cereal dish or toast plate in the bowl. There was a note, on a sheet of paper ripped from her kitchen pad and written in block capitals – THANK YOU AND GOOD LUCK. DAVID.
Swallowing her disappointment, Melissa wandered about, filling the kettle, fetching a box of cornflakes, getting the milk from the fridge. He was such an enigmatic man, she’d looked forward to finding out a little more about him. A lonely man, too – that much she had sensed right from the start. And that was another reason for her disappointment. It wasn’t the sex she’d missed – that was becoming less and less important as the years passed. She had missed the opportunity to put her arms round that thin, pale body and give it a little warmth and comfort.
She needed to go shopping. Melissa wrote a list and grabbed a coat from a hook in the hall. It wouldn’t take long to run to Morrisons.
As she left the pub she noticed a white van parked in High Street. This was a pedestrianised area and the only vehicles which used it were those of tradesmen, postmen and the Saturday market traders. Approaching the van, she noticed two men hunched inside, both with fleece hats pulled down to their eyes.
At the top of the ramp leading to Morrisons’ car park Melissa noticed another man; this one was enthusiastically sweeping the paving stones. He was dressed in jeans and a jacket with a fleece hat pulled down to his eyes. Good Heavens, was it some kind of uniform, wearing those hats like that? As she passed him he looked up and grinned at her.
“Beautiful day, to be sure.”
“It’s perishing cold!” she declared.
“Ah, you should be after getting the Guinness inside you. Keeps the cold out, so it does. Good morning to you, Madam.”
She gave him a saucy grin as she passed, then it faded. The mentioned of Guinness had set her thinking about David. Where was he, what was he doing? Was he all right?
“He’s just spoken to someone... she must have gone now. What is it, Captain Magenta, do we have a sighting?”
“No, nothing.”
The Irish accent was now much less noticeable.
“But he was seen going into that pub. The Longboat. There can’t be more than one Longboat in Stone. I’m going to wait till the woman comes back then I’m going to knock on the door and ask to speak to her. Blue, get on that laptop and see if there are any other Longboats within a twenty-mile radius of Stone.
“SIG.”
Captain Blue looked down at the laptop on his knees and began to type.
On her way back Melissa noticed the cheerful Irish road-sweeper had moved along the car park. He waved his broom at her and she waved as well as she could with a bulging bag in each hand. She took a short cut into High Street. The white van was still there. She wondered if the men inside were something to do with a reported gas leak, or perhaps they were shop fitters, waiting for somewhere to open. She was tempted to knock on the van’s window and ask them if they would like tea or coffee, then a glance at her watch told her she ought to get a move on, she had a lot to do before she opened up at midday.
Melissa was packing her groceries away when she heard a knock. She scurried down the stairs and opened the door. There stood one of the men from the van.
“Good morning, Madam,” he said, in a cultured, south-of-England voice. “Could you possibly spare me a few minutes?”
She hesitated but he produced some kind of pass and showed it to her.
“Captain Scarlet, Spectrum. I’d like to ask you if you’ve seen this man in the last twenty-four hours.”
He held up a photograph. Melissa leaned against the door jamb, trying to appear casual rather than shocked. It couldn’t be. It was just coincidence. The man in the photograph just looked like David, it couldn’t possibly be him. No, this one was fuller in the face and wearing smarter clothes – a black leather coat and black trousers. It was definitely not David.
She shook her head.
“Never seen him in my life,” she said.
“There have been reports of him being seen in Stone last night. If you should see him would you call the local police? And please – don’t approach him. He’s very dangerous. Just note where he is and where he appears to be going and tell the police immediately. Would you do that please?”
“Of course,” she lied.
“There’s no need to worry, it’s unlikely he’ll deliberately make himself known to you and cause you harm but he is a wanted terrorist and we welcome all the help we can get from the public.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you very much. On behalf of Spectrum.”
He smiled and left. Melissa closed the door and leaned on it. Closing her eyes, she waited until her heart had finished hammering. It was David in the photograph, she knew. But he couldn’t – just couldn’t – be dangerous. Or a terrorist. It just wasn’t possible. She knew she would not see him again so there was no chance of her being in a position to tell the police anything. And Captain Scarlet of Spectrum could mind his own business.
Captain Scarlet rejoined Captain Blue in the van, climbing onto the driving seat.
“Anything from Magenta?” he asked.
“No. Hold it... I’m getting something.” He adjusted his ear bud. “Go ahead Captain Ochre. Yes, I copy. We’ll follow you and when we spot you we’ll keep close.” Blue turned to Scarlet. “Ochre has a sighting of a Toyota saloon reported stolen from an address in Stone early this morning. He’s following him; he thinks it’s Black. He’s on the M6 heading north towards Carlisle.”
“Right,” said Scarlet, pulling the seat belt over his shoulder, “let’s see if we end up at John O’Groats before the end of the day.”
As Melissa ploughed through a mound of ironing she was listening to the radio. She liked this morning programme. The songs were gentle, the phone-ins never seemed to attract the Professionally Disgruntled and each day a popular poem was read by a studio guest, usually a professional actor or actress. Melissa remembered reading today’s poem at school but she hadn’t thought about it since then. As the once-familiar words prodded her memory she realised – with a strange sense of sadness – how appropriate they were.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor
And the highwayman came riding –
Riding – riding –
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.*
*The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes