Looking for Mrs Dextrose (29 page)

Yes, why not?

Sorted.

It had been a night of fitful slumber, punctuated by nightmares featuring Importos, Hilda and Eustace. All too real. I had woken up several times, shaking, almost feverish, and when I drifted
back to sleep the terrible visions had continued precisely where they’d left off.

I recalled feeling, even in my subconscious, an enormous sense of relief when the cavalry had finally arrived in the form of a fleet of police cars, rolling in convoy down the Nameless Highway
and into Lonely Bush, sirens blaring.

When I woke up, the sirens were still blaring.

Immediately I guessed what was going on.

Red light travelled in pulses along the walls of the stairway, beamed in through glass. Which emergency service – services? – they belonged to, that was debatable,
but I knew full well which establishment they would be attending.

The sirens ceased as I descended the stairs. Rose was at the bottom in a floral nightgown, heading for the front door. I shimmied past her, reached the latch, then had to stand aside while she
found the key for the lock.

“I’ll bet it’s that damned titty bar again,” she muttered to herself. “Always trouble. The lowlife they get in there.”

“Indeed,” I replied.

“What are you doing up, anyway? Is this something to do with you?” she demanded.

“What’s going on, Ma?” Clemmie’s voice, muffled by walls.

I couldn’t let them know the truth – that my father was a lecherous drunk whose face was falling off – so I was forced to think fast. And it just slipped out: “I’m
an undercover police officer. Stay inside and leave this to me.”

“Oooh,” she went, practically swooning. “You should have said so before, officer.”

Pushing Rose aside, I swung open the door and stood on the step. Swathed in flashing red light, which felt seedy, I turned and held my palm up towards her. “Go back inside, ma’m. Let
me take care of this.”

That was when Clemmie appeared in her jim-jams. Pale blue jim-jams, probably cotton. Her hair in sweet disarray. Rubbing bleary eyes.

As I closed the door I caught her say the words, “…must have been pretty deep undercover…”

A single police car, white with a green stripe along the side, was parked outside Jimmy’s. The drunk being bundled into the back seat by a copper in a hat was instantly
recognisable.

The barmaid I’d seen earlier was standing in the bar doorway, ranting and shaking a fist while her boobs wobbled in sympathy. “Get him out of here! Dirty old sod! You throw the book
at him, officer! Never in all my years…”

The drizzle had stopped, leaving that nostalgic, heady aroma of dampened grass. I sucked it in, looked around to see Clemmie and her mother’s noses pressed against the guesthouse window,
ogling, and dived into the crime scene.

“Excuse me, officer,” I said, keeping a respectful distance. “Can I help?”

Dextrose lay sprawled across the rear seat of the cop car, attempting to right himself in the manner of an upside-down beetle. His tracksuit bottoms were soaked in what I trusted was beer, and I
could smell the alcohol fumes even from a safe distance.

The officer addressed me. “And why might you be able to help, sir?”

I swallowed dry nothing. He had the disposition of a sergeant-major, all chest and chin. His khaki uniform – shorts, short-sleeved shirt, long socks, blunt pointy hat with four dents, such
as a scoutmaster (or an eccentric German) might have worn – was immaculate. His buttons were polished and his expression scared me.

“Iyav neverseenthad man inmylife, orifice,” slurred Dextrose.

I had no way of telling whether he was trying to protect me or had forgotten who I was again.

“What’s he done?” I asked.

“And why would that be any business of yours? Sir?” the copper persisted.

Should I confess? “He’s my father, officer.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “
That’s
your father?”

“Yes.
He
is.”

The copper glared. “You realise I am at liberty to arrest you also, for consorting with a known criminal?”

I didn’t, but felt the concept was best sidestepped. “What’s he done, officer?”

He pointed towards Jimmy’s. “According to Miss Venetia Williams, the beverage dispenser at said establishment, the accused proceeded to place his penis in her lime juice and soda
water at…” he consulted his notebook, “5.57am, while requesting of her in a ‘leery’ manner, ‘Do you fancy a quick mint?’”

“Actually, it’s ‘mink’,” I pointed out, as he slapped shut his book.

Sadly it didn’t surprise me at all. More than once in
The Lost Incompetent
had Dextrose documented himself doing precisely the same: dunking his private part in a lady’s drink
then asking her out. It appeared to be his chat-up technique when exquisitely drunk, and it had never occurred to him that it didn’t work.

Instead, I said: “That’s most unlike him, officer. Are you sure it isn’t a case of mistaken identity?”

Dextrose, I noticed, had fallen asleep sucking his thumb.

The copper pushed out his shiny shirt buttons. “Sir. Besides Miss Williams, the accused was the only human personage in said establishment. Now, if you do not wish to become incarcerated
also, I suggest you stand aside and desist from asking questions.” He opened his car door and slid in.

“Wait, please, officer. Where are you taking him?”

He donned a pair of sunglasses slowly, while staring at me, savouring his role. “Pretanike Jail. Now disproceed from the crime scene, sir. That is your final warning.”

He slammed his door and turned on his flashing lights and siren, though there was no other traffic in sight. I watched the car disappear up the road, flustered and bereft. Now I would be looking
for both Mr and Mrs Dextrose in Pretanike: a disconcerting burden of responsibility, suddenly thrust upon me.

Quite sensibly, I could have stayed in Flattened Hat, married Clemmie following a whirlwind romance and lived happily ever after, expunging any memories of the Dextrose clan from my mind. Just
let it go. Get on with my life.

But I couldn’t.

I wished I could have done, but I couldn’t.

Rose’s gaze followed me as I returned to the guesthouse and she was waiting on the doorstep as I arrived. Her daughter had disappeared. Probably overcome with
admiration.

“What happened?” she asked eagerly. “Did he ask for your help?”

“Out of my jurisdiction,” I replied.

“So what happened?”

I tapped the side of my nose conspiratorially. “Police business. You understand, I’m sure, ma’m?”

“Ooooh!” she gasped. “You can tell me, you know…”

“No time, I’m afraid. I need to follow that police car to Pretanike Jail.”

But how?

I needn’t have worried. “Clemmie! Clemmie!” Rose called back down the hallway.

“What?” her daughter replied.

Rose said, “I’ve told this charming young policeman you’ll give him a lift to Pretanike. He needs to get there urgently.”

Brief silence. Then: “Why me?”

“Because I have to stay here to run the guesthouse and your father has to…” The landlady glanced at me. “You know what your father has to do. Now get a move on, young
lady!”

“Do I have to?” Slightly whinier than I might have anticipated.

“Yes! You do!”

I will confess that my ardour for Clemmie was cooling slightly by the time the dark needles that were Pretanike’s skyscrapers appeared on the horizon. There is only so
much information one person needs concerning another’s grandparents, unless one is addicted to genealogy.

Boy, could she talk about family.

I learnt that her paternal grandparents were called Reg and Edie, that Reg died two years ago, aged 82, of lung cancer, and that Edie (87) lived a short walk away, in Lavender
Close. Clemmie visited her every Thursday afternoon, they watched the daytime soap (
Hoi, That’s My Wife!
) while eating fig rolls, and Edie habitually pressed a penny coin into her palm
as she left.

“It’s not a lot, I know, but it adds up when you’ve visited as often as I do,” Clemmie explained.

Reg had wheezed a lot, though he had never once in his life smoked. No one could explain this. The consultant at the hospital (Dr Beverley) suggested he might have unwittingly worked with
asbestos in his younger days. However, since Reg had owned a confectionery business until his retirement (12 October 1979; 32 family members had attended his retirement party, pointedly not
including Reg and Edie’s son, Jake, with whom they had fallen out once he began dating and later married Sharon Probert, “a bitch”) that had been deemed unlikely.

Having a father who worked in sweets had been the root of Clemmie’s father Arthur’s – and later Rose’s – dental problems. Reg and Edie had tried interesting him in
vegetables, even banned him from eating sweets, but he would sneak into the backroom of the shop as a child and steal the stock. White mice and strawberry bonbons were his favourites. Even into
adulthood, Arthur had been unable to kick the sugar habit, leading to all of his teeth having fallen out or been extracted by the time he was 27. Rose was the first and only woman he had
courted.

And so it went on, through Grandma Nesta and Grandpa Deke (RIP – natural causes), aunties Vi, Val (RIP – motor-vehicle accident) and Vera, uncles Rich, Stevo, Terry and Jeremy (gay
– source of a family rift), cousins Willy, Bill, Eric (at catering college), Jake (aforementioned), Sylv, Dashiell, Lydia, Nancy (dangerously overweight) and Tiff, nephews… I
can’t go on.

Clemmie, on the other hand, could.

I did try to interject, however it proved hopeless.

When, for instance, Clemmie mentioned that her cousin Bill had once left Flattened Hat to go travelling, I spotted my opportunity and pounced: “I’ve been travelling!”

She paused only long enough to note, “That’s nice,” before going on to tell me how cousin Bill had been “God knows where,” and had not returned home for “a
good 72 hours,” before riffing on cousin Dashiell’s dislike of cheese wrapped in wax.

Ironically, for the first 20 minutes of the drive, she had silently sulked and I had had to coax her into talking.

Unaccustomed to female company as I had been, I did understand the importance of listening in the dating game. It’s not what you reply, it’s what you’re
prepared to absorb.

So Clemmie’s four-on-the-floor verbosity dampened my enthusiasm only slightly and, as she nattered on, all the while with her eyes on the road, soaking up the Nameless Highway, I was able
to take in her profile.

Her chin was quite rounded; loose flesh drooped from beneath it like snow overhanging eaves. Her cheeks were plump and reddened, though she was bare of make-up, and her lips were thin. She
tended to drive with her mouth open and her tongue-tip out.

Her forehead was convex, wrinkle-free, with evidence of flaking skin. She had a very cute nose, small, button-ended and curving upwards. Her tortoiseshell spectacles were pushed back up to its
bridge and her eyes were golden-brown. More brown than golden.

Thick, mousy-coloured hair rippled down over her ears, like ice cream over oysters.

The only time she ceased her monologue was when she turned towards me suddenly and snapped, “Stop staring at me! You’re giving me the creeps!”

I laughed and she said, “No, I’m serious.” Obviously joking.

How did Clemmie compare to ‘the goddess’, Suzy Goodenough?

Suzy was sexier, there was no denying that. But Clemmie was homelier. The girl-next-door to Suzy’s girl-several-streets-away.

Suzy was an inveterate tease. Clemmie… She was a tease also.

Suzy…

Actually, the comparisons didn’t really matter. The fact remained that I was hopeless with women. I’d spent years trying to wheedle myself into Suzy’s affections, yet she had
always fulfilled her carnal desires elsewhere, among the worldlier boys with the haircuts and the banter. All that investment for no return.

What earthly chance did I stand with Clemmie?