North Prospect (2 page)

  Our appointment with Mr Hardcastle was set for eleven a.m. He entered his room at eleven on the dot: in fact the tower clock had just begun striking. Not a good sign. Carrie and I had prepared a secret word which would bring the meeting to an abrupt end in the event of unfavourable circumstances. This man was good, too good for our benefit. Since I had no intention of completing the interview, I began by asking Mr Hardcastle if he would act for us should we wish to purchase a house in Plymouth. I saw his jaw drop. Had we not come in about a will? Or had his secretary get it wrong? However, he agreed to act as our solicitor should we go ahead and purchase a house in Plymouth. That was all. No papers to sign, a wasted day. We both agreed, Mr Hardcastle was a fine lawyer but too good for our benefit.

   We still had the rest of the day to re-plan. Carrie suggested Barnstaple. I agreed. It was in the sticks and we seriously needed a dummy lawyer. There must be one out there somewhere. After a Chinese lunch in Plymouth we drove across to Barnstaple. During our brief lunch Carrie had checked out a list of lawyers in Barnstaple on her i-Pad. A quick phone call and an appointment was made to see Mr Kevin Carter-Smith. On arrival, Carrie and I smiled. He was perfect.

 “Call me Kevin,” he announced. He must have been, well I suppose he must have been of sufficient age to have qualified as a lawyer, he looked very young to me. Shall we say he was just perfect for us?  He was one of the ten per cent of lawyers who give the rest a bad name.

   It’s not fair really that men, unfortunate enough to be named Kevin get such a bad press. However, in Kevin’s case it was justified. He ambled into the office late; exactly twenty minutes late for our appointment to be exact. He promptly dropped his notepad onto the floor and, in the scuffle to grab it from under his desk he cracked his head, nearly knocking himself out. Perfect.

   I presented Carrie as my wife, Sue. In his haste to shake hands, he dropped his fountain pen, nib first. I could see the frustration on his little, cherub-like face. I felt sorry for him. He assured us he was okay. I was really beginning to like Kevin.

   It took nearly two hours to write the will and get it word perfect. ‘Sue’ assured Kevin that she wanted all the money, in the event of her death, to come to me. I presented as being ‘deeply touched’. With regard to the cottage, that too came to me, in the unlikely event of my wife’s death, of course. I spied the first sentence; ‘Renouncing all other wills, etc. etc.’ Beautiful.

   The will would have to be witnessed after it had been checked over by us, so we made another appointment for the following Thursday with identification, a passport and council tax bill, (neither of which we had, so I offered a Mess Bill. Kevin was impressed). The firm had six days to have it typed and checked over, in preparation for signing.

   We left the office bursting to laugh. Once in the car, Carrie laughed so loud that people in the car parked next to us looked to see if anything was wrong. What a woman! What an actress! And the problem with ‘Sue’s passport? Easy, when Sue was slim, she looked like Carrie…I think. We would soon see if Kevin spots the difference.

   That night we stayed at The Rising Sun pub in Umberleigh.It was the perfect retreat. We had a nice meal, a couple of pints of Tribute real ale and then early to bed, early to rise. Next morning we were back at Lympstone in time for breakfast in the Mess, our business concluded.

   Needless to say, the following week, when we both returned to see Kevin, everything was set for signing. He produced a witness, one of the firm’s typists. He assured us it was quite normal under the circumstances.

  It would be a few days before I would see Carrie again and even longer before I saw Sue. We were off to the USA for desert training. I called at the cottage and found Sue faithfully watching Deal or No Deal. She had made a start on a large box of Thornton’s Classic Collection. I understand they were on special offer at the local Co-op in Lympstone. I like Thornton’s and I even indulged in one of the caramels. Sue of course encouraged me to have another, which I agreed to do, as long as she had one as well. Between us we finished the box: all forty-two chocolates gone, eaten, in a gluttonous half hour. I felt sick. I had eaten five.

   I explained to Sue that I was duty officer that night and I would have to get back. She was clearly disappointed that I wouldn’t be staying but she understood. Once at the Centre I was needed right away, so my planned meeting with Carrie in the Mess had to be postponed while I accompanied the duty provost sergeant to Exeter police station where they wanted to interview an errant Marine.

   That done, I returned to the Mess but Carrie had evidently retired to her room and as it was well after three a.m. I thought it best not to disturb her. My troop would be away for three weeks, initially staying at Quantico in Virginia, then moving on to San Diego. After desert training, on our return, Carrie and I planned a long weekend in Paris. It would be a nice bit of leave before my sojourn in Helmand Province. There would be no ‘runs ashore’ in Lashkar Gah.

   After San Diego, I flew back to Quantico to attend a series of seminars for Intelligence Officers. By the time I returned to Lympstone I was exhausted. For the first night of my return I booked into the Mess and next morning I sought out Carrie. We breakfasted together, assessing our situation.

*

Paris never lets you down. We had both recently seen the Woody Allen film, ‘Midnight in Paris’ and were enthusiastic Francophiles so a few days in Montmartre at the Tarrass Hotel, an art-deco style place near the Sacré-Coeur, was a wonderful break from routine. It was a fantastic few days, over all too soon. Carrie certainly wasn’t keen to fly back to the daily routine, especially with the imminent prospect of my absence but I reminded her about the money and she soon perked up.  I had to remind myself sometimes.

   ‘Look on the bright side,’ I said to myself. ‘In a couple of months we could be back…maybe even permanently.’ Such thoughts gave me a wonderful warm feeling.

   We returned to London on the Eurostar, both in a somewhat better frame of mind. We had one last drink at the Globe Hotel in Topsham where Carrie held my hand, whispering, ‘soon.’  Then we drove quietly back to Lympstone, I collected my car and drove out to a very depressing cottage.

  Sue was watching television. The remains of a Chinese takeaway lay strewn on the floor. A quick kiss on the cheek, (noticing a drop of chop suey sauce which had dribbled on to her chin), then, feigning tiredness, I retired to bed and dreamed of Paris.

   Next morning I was due at another base near Taunton. I would once again be attached to 42 Commando. Our overseas embarkation plans were kept secret. Families, of course, knew where and when we would be going, even the television people were there, but the news would be broadcast long after we were on our way to Brize Norton airfield.

 All too soon we were at the Well House Inn in Exeter for our last meal together. Carrie looked divine. There would of course be a ‘Dining In’ night in the mess, a chance to meet my brother officers from Bickleigh and Taunton but. as it would be a formal dinner, there would be little chance of meeting up with Carrie. On this occasion it was lunch of course. After that we drove across to Barnstaple where our, you see, there I go, saying ‘our’ lawyer, had made a magnificent job of the will. He asked to see ‘Sue’s’ passport, which he held in his hand for a moment while telling us about a fishing trip he had just been on with his dad. He placed it upside down in the photocopier and then passed it back to Carrie without even looking at it. My passport and Mess bill were passed back without comment. I could have said my name was Prince Harry and I don’t think he would have noticed.

   Witnessed and signed, the will was secreted in my room in the Mess. The next job was to ‘lose’ Sue’s real will. No problem. What dirty tricks men get up to! The following afternoon was spent in bed and by the time I was getting ready to go across to the Mess for dinner there was a message for me from the girl who tends our horses. Sue was ‘poorly’ again. I dashed to the cottage only to find Sue tucked up in bed, comforted by a small box of supermarket chocolates. It had come to that: she was eating rubbish. I would have to alter that! I would not have my wife eating cheap chocolate!

   Sue was lonely and depressed. Suicidal?  I hoped not, since I wasn’t sure where that would leave the will. Fortunately, she soon cheered up. After all, it was my duty to keep her happy. I promised to stay with her that night, which proved to be not too much of a chore. I drove into Topsham and ordered a takeaway meal. When I got back I found there was a bottle of my favourite wine, Vouvray, still in the fridge.. What more could a man ask for? Dining with a millionairess, a bottle of fine wine (perfectly chilled of course); a large portion of sweet and sour king prawns for Sue, followed by char sui with special fried rice and a large tub of curry sauce on the side. I nibbled at some shredded chicken and just a little boiled rice: after all, one has to be careful and king prawns are notoriously high in cholesterol. A second bottle of Vouvray followed. It was then time for bed.

    My time at the cottage was not wasted since I was able to retrieve Sue’s will from the den. Before she waved me off, she slipped a small parcel through the car window.

‘Shall I open it now I asked?’

‘Wait until Afghanistan,’ she said. I could see tears in her eyes. As I drove away I watched her in the rear view mirror.  My, my! How she had put on weight!

   Just how to ‘dispose’ of Sue still evaded me. A conventional murder was totally out of the question. I would have to rely on fair nature, with a little help from me. Oh, I forgot to mention, before leaving I had replaced all of Sue’s Nitro patches with Nicotine patches. Carrie’s medical knowledge really came to the fore here: she estimated just a couple of weeks.

   Meanwhile, I was soon entrenched in a mud wall compound in Nahr-e-Saraj District of Helman Province. Thankfully it was the Marines who went out on the patrols, not me; well, not too often. My role was intelligence. I liaised with local Afghanistan interpreters and only occasionally was required to venture out on patrol. On previous occasions I would have enjoyed the challenge. Now I was acutely aware that I didn’t want to die from a Taliban bullet or an IED before collecting my money.

   Four weeks into the tour the call came through and I was airlifted out. Sue had  been taken very ill and collapsed while out shopping in Exeter. She had been admitted to The Royal Devon and Exeter Hospital. By the time I  reached the ward she looked awful. In fact when I entered the room I was quite sure she was already dead. For sure, she was unconscious. Surreptitiously I checked her arm for the nicotine patch, there was none. I quickly checked her admission medical records. There was no mention of a patch, presumably either the nurse admitting her had removed it or Sue had not bothered to put a patch on that morning: either way it was good news. I swiftly adhered a patch to her left arm; it was barely noticeable under the folds of fat.

  Sue died that night, having never recovered consciousness. Feigning grief, I moved back into the cottage. Carrie, meanwhile, had kept a very low profile.

  Two days after Sue’s funeral, I resigned my commission. I could see no point in putting myself in unnecessary danger. Two weeks later Carrie resigned her commission and a few weeks after that we put the cottage on the market and left to live in Spain.  Our plan was coming to fruition.

   After three weeks I thought it about time to invoke the will. I was so pleased to hear that Kevin had ‘moved on’. Exactly where to, I never discovered, nor did I bother to ask. Everything was in order and, after watching me sign a few documents, Mr Ian Harding shook my hand and repeated his most sincere condolences.  I left the Barnstaple office nearly three million pounds richer.  

*

We married in Spain. It was a romantic wedding with only one guest, Carrie’s father, Charlie. There was no need for a honeymoon: where would we want to go? We were already in one of the most beautiful parts of Spain. We had bought a four- bedroomed villa with a large pool and, my personal dream, a private orange grove. I planned to sell the oranges through the local co-operative.

   Alongside the pool there were rooms used as changing rooms, a large outdoor kitchen, a shower, and a barbeque. Various brightly-coloured sunbeds were scattered around.

   We soon slipped into a very pleasant routine.  Carrie had taken up oil painting. She had joined a local art group run by a Spanish teacher who encouraged the group to take their easels into the hills and pueblos to paint the old ‘fincas’ or farmhouses. Several of her paintings now adorned the interior of the villa: her best effort to date was a painting of a valley with the almond trees in full blossom.

*

   For a long time I lay beside the pool, watching our Spanish gardener sweeping leaves from the pool edge. Carrie joined me: she had an armful of holiday brochures. She kissed me and settled down beside me .She looked eatable, bronze from months in the sun. Ximo the Spaniard gathered the leaves and placed them in a barrow and wheeled it to a tall round concrete construction at the bottom of the garden which served as a ‘hoguera’ (bonfire).

   Carrie was speaking to somebody, I could hardly turn my head to see who it was. I managed to grunt a few words but she ignored me. She spread out the brochures around the pool chair. I heard her say something about the Seychelles rather than the Caribbean.

   The sun was climbing high in the sky by now and I was uncomfortably hot. Carrie now heard my grunts and called to Ximo, the gardener. He carefully placed a sun umbrella over me to provide welcome  shade.

*

Carrie was looking at Caribbean cruises. Was I interested? Yes, I suppose I was. I liked that part of the world, but she wasn’t  asking  me. I was not to be included in this cruise. It was nearing the time for my meal. I heard the sound of a car and lay waiting for Maria to arrive: she was never late, three times a day my carer called at the villa. She brought the hoist across to the pool and skilfully lifted me into the wheelchair, then wheeled me across to the shade of the terrace where she  proceeded to put a bib on me and prepared to feed me.