5. THE TRAIN STATION

THE FANCY DRESS BALL (5)

“What if it rains, Jeffrey?” I asked over coffee one morning a few days before his planned fancy dress ball. I knew what his answer would be, but I was worried. It was perfectly okay for him to hold his soiree on his back lawn in the open air, but the pandemic still hadn’t completely disappeared and groups of people indoors were expected to wear face coverings, surgical masks, that sort of thing, and I knew he was unlikely to ignore any government advice let alone regulations.

“Indoors, of course,” he replied, “and with masks,” he added, aware of what I was getting at. His reply relieved me.

“Lady Godiva in a mask,” I grinned, “I can’t wait to see that!”

“She’s been at it with her needles and thread,” grinned Jeffrey, “making a body suit that conceals everything. So don’t get your hopes up for a sly peep at her perfect flesh! If she rides in on Trigger every square inch of her will be tastefully concealed!”

“As if I would,” I replied, knowing that I would, given a chance. Even Cynthia completely concealed in a flesh-coloured body stocking would be a sight for sore eyes!

“The twins are due back later today,” Jeffrey told me, “and if you think someone might have had an accident or heat attack snd be in a bad way with two young nurses wandering around, nobody’s actually suffering from anything and it’ll be them trying out their borrowed uniforms. They plan on being nurses for the fancy dress, and if I know anything about my daughters it is those nurses outfits will be dangerously short and only just on the right side of decent! You know what they’re like … over-endowed with brains, but not growing up!”

The twins, Jessica and Dakota, though in their final year at University, were a force of nature when it came to sharing a sense of humour. I found them to be delightful, but I dared say there might be some who found their almost constant peels of laughter a tad annoying. But Jeffery was right: they were truly intelligent as I discovered more than once in conversation with one or both of them.

“They’re fine,” I told him, “they could have done with more like those two when the Tiffany affair exploded.”

“And with you writing the headlines,” he grinned. “It never seemed fair, you bringing about the fall of the mighty and losing your job yourself.”

“You know what it’s like. There was a lot of money involved and most newspaper proprietors aren’t keen on seeing wealth under attack, especially when it was something as unsavoury as the murder of a child, especially under those circumstances. Some people can be truly evil and too much money sometimes makes them worse rather than better.”

“But you dug it all out, which did you great credit,” he said.

“I can’t stand it when the weak and the young are abused, and Tiffany was a sweet little thing. I might have turned a blind eye on the money laundering side of things, but when a child like that is, you know, made to suffer, then it’s not on and both of my eyes suddenly discover 20/20 vision,” I told him, and meant it.

“You did a good job,” he assured me, “and be assured, you’ll always find friends here, which is more than you can say for a great deal of the political establishment, some of which were in it up to the tops of their greasy heads!”

“So what are you coming as?” I asked, changing the subject and knowing what the answer would be. Jeffrey hated dressing up, and fancy dress was as far from being down his street as anything else.

“Me? You know me, old friend. I’ll be in hiding and nobody’ll get a peep out of me until it’s time to call it a day. Or a night. But how about you? You’ve kept quiet about your contribution to the excesses of the night?”

“I’ll be with Millie as you might expect, and we’ll be coming as a Roman couple circa year zero. Me with my armour and weaponry and she in a delightful diaphanous number that’s almost see-through!”

He frowned. “Don’t forget some will be bringing their kids,” he said, “not too risqué I hope!”

“Nowhere near as eye-popping as Lady Godiva,” I told him, irked by his assumption that I had a poor idea of acceptable taste.

“Touché!” he said, placating me. “From what I gather there’ll be a whole legion of you Roman warrior-types by all accounts.”

“There will?” I asked.

“Well, at least one other, and as it’s a popular character, maybe more,” he told me, “but Todd, that’s the bloke who does my gardening when he can be bothered to turn up, says he’s coming as a well-armed and thunderingly dangerous Roman legionnaire, and when he sets himself to do something he usually succeeds even if my tomato plants might tell you he takes too long about it!”

“Well, at least I’ll have a fine Roman lady draped over my shoulder,” I said, not really bothered whether I had any competition or not.

“Lucky you,” he said, “because Todd’s old lady’s not likely to be much competition from her wheelchair!”

“I’ve see he racing about, though,” I grinned, “chasing her grandkids through the park!”

The morning outside was fine, sunny and rather too warm for my liking, but I needed to get back to Millie’s where I’d left my briefcase. I needed to visit London, not so much on business but to close down the rental of the flat I was living in when down south. I had decided, after a great deal of thought and not a little temptation from Millie, to move in with her. I knew I had a permanent room at the manor if I wanted it, and I was experiencing less and less reason to be in the capital until calls on my time had reached about zero. But spending my time with Millie, who besides being fair to look upon was a veritable angel, was a draw I couldn't turn down.

So I set out for the station. I’ve never got my head round driving in London traffic, so I always take the train. Driving in London tests my patience to breaking point and I’ve no idea how those who do it for a living cope. They must be made of sterner stuff than me, that’s all I can say!

I arrived at the station in good time for my train, and as I stood there waiting I couldn’t help noticing two rather shifty looking individuals, and they seemed to be watching me in a way that’s almost, but not quite, obvious.

In my years as a journalist I’d got used to that type. After a story themselves, maybe, they sometimes set themselves the task of shadowing men like me who rae at the top of the ladder, so to speak, in order, perhaps, to scoop up any crumbs we might metaphorically drop. Unlikely, I know, but I dared say if they saw me calling at a particular office and then going hastily to a second location they might try to put one and one together, and invariably make a number not equal to two, but a tatty tabloid might pay them peanuts in case it led somewhere. Anyway, those two, though a familiar type were strangers, and after a while I ignored them until my train came in.

Maybe I should have taken more notice of them. But I had things on my mind, mostly to do with the silly fancy dress ball and visualising Millie in her diaphanous finery, and sleazy characters on a train station were very little distraction.

© Peter Rogerson 21,07.20