In a small English village, one inhabitant was planning
an unlikely career change.
‘I think I might
become a private detective,’ said Ray.
He sipped his tea
and waited for a response.
None came.
Laura appeared to
be ignoring him, which was not unusual. She was watching a foreign film,
possibly French, with English subtitles. A man was standing on a bridge at
night. At least it seemed to be at night; in black and white it was hard to
tell. One thing was certain - it was raining. Or the television was broken. He
assumed the man was in a suicidal mood and was contemplating jumping into the water
below. It looked a long way down, and he wondered how far you could fall into
water and still survive. It probably depended on the position of your body on
impact. Face-first could be disastrous, even off a very small bridge,
especially if the water was shallower than expected. He would check on the
Internet later.
Despite his wife’s
indifference, he decided to continue talking, mostly because he wanted to share
his ideas with someone, even if they were not listening.
‘I thought it could
be a way to make some extra money,’ he said. ‘Not a fortune, but just a few
pounds. Although, thinking about it, private detectives must get paid a fair
amount of money, depending on their success rates. Sherlock Holmes always
seemed rich. Although, he might have been rich before he began detecting. I
suppose that does seem likely. Anyway, money isn’t everything. I could do small
cases at first. Finding lost wallets. Or children. That sort of thing.’
Laura bit into an
apple and Ray realised for the first time that she was crying. She wiped her eyes
with a tissue from the box she kept beside her. It was a box which had to be
replaced frequently, as she often cried during films. Ray had tried to
encourage her to watch less emotional ones. ‘No one cries during Alien,’ he had said, but she had ignored
him as always. She seemed to like crying at the television, but not at real
life - she never cried at real life. Even at funerals. Or when chopping onions.
Ray cried uncontrollably at both.
On screen the man
decided against a watery grave and walked into the darkness accompanied by
orchestral music. Ray wondered how different his life would be if he was
accompanied by music throughout his daily routine. Walking to the pub would be
more dramatic with Wagner. Stacking shelves would be quicker with Metallica.
‘I was just
thinking it could be a bit of a hobby. Make the evenings more interesting. Probably
just be out for a couple of hours after dinner. You would barely miss me. You
might even prefer it.’
She would definitely
prefer it, he was sure of that. Being married involved even less communication
than he had imagined. He wondered how long it would be before they spent their
evenings in separate rooms. Or houses.
Laura sat with her
legs hanging over the arm of the sofa. She wore a cream, silk dressing gown and
her skin was still pink from the bathwater she had been soaking in for at least
an hour. She filled the room with soft scents of lavender and vanilla. She took
another bite of her apple and chewed. The film paused for an advert break. A
woman with digestive issues seemed considerably happier after eating strawberry
yoghurt. A Hollywood star looked enigmatic and serious advertising a new perfume.
Ray waited for
Laura to speak. The film resumed and the man sat alone in a café staring
mournfully out of the window.
‘Ray,’ said Laura, before
pausing to bite into her third apple and wipe a stray tear from her left cheek.
‘You find it challenging enough running the local supermarket. Maybe you should
concentrate on your day job? People would hate to see you lose focus and for
the cereals to end up in just any order. It would cause chaos.’
‘Well,’ he said, and
then ran out of words.
During the year since
their wedding many of their evenings had passed in a similar fashion. Laura spent
long periods of time relaxing in the bath, phoned friends, watched romantic films
with happy endings and ate a variety of healthy foods, usually involving fruit.
Ray wandered around the house, drank tea, visited the pub alone and drew up
plans for making himself wealthier. So far his plans had all failed, mostly in
the conceptual stage.
‘You have all these
ideas, Ray,’ said Laura.
He was expecting,
or hoping, for her to say something else, but she began eating seedless grapes
and returned what little of her attention she had given him to the television.
When they were
first engaged many people, including his father, had expressed their surprise
at how beautiful she was. He was reminded of those comments as she ran her
fingers through Titian hair and stretched her slender legs. ‘Why would a woman
like that marry you?’ said his father. It was a fair question, if a bit
uncalled for, and one that Ray tried not to ponder too deeply in case he found
some uncomfortable answers.
He left her alone
in the lounge and headed to the kitchen to make tea. Ray liked tea and he was capable
of drinking up to fifteen cups a day, which had the added advantage of creating
numerous work breaks. Not that he was lazy at work. He ran the supermarket with
surprising efficiency. Still, there were plenty of occasions when a tea was
necessary to recover from a particularly troublesome customer.
‘I can be a
detective,’ he said to himself, as he sat at the kitchen table and sipped his
tea.
It was late October
and raining. No one had been particularly surprised to learn that it was
already one of the wettest months since records began, which had initiated many
conversations about climate change in The White Dragon. None of them had been
very conclusive. The landlord had argued that climate change meant that Britain
was rising and floating towards France. Tony was sure that changes in the Gulf Stream
were going to send the Earth spinning off its axis straight into the sun. Ray’s
theory that it might make the weather harder to predict had been universally
dismissed.
He briefly
considered visiting The White Dragon for a pint, but it was raining with
increasing vigour, and he was not overly keen to get wet, even on the four
minute walk it would take him to reach the local. He was content to sit and
ruminate on his new career path. He was confident that even in quiet English
villages there were occasional robberies and murders. Once he had built up some
experience he liked the idea of investigating some of them himself. He had no
formal training, unless his GCSEs in chemistry and biology were relevant, but
qualifications were not going to stop him. There would be plenty of opportunities
to start small and local: lost pets, stolen garden furniture, investigating the
odd extra marital affair. The inhabitants of Diddlebury would be more than
happy to pay for resolutions to such cases, especially if they concluded in the
exposure and humiliation of one of their neighbours.
‘Case solved,’ said
Ray, as he imagined rugby tackling a particularly violent burglar outside the
bakery.
‘Talking to
yourself is a sign of idiocy,’ said Laura, as she breezed in and out of the
kitchen to collect a kiwi fruit and a spoon.
‘Or genius,’ he
said. ‘Einstein probably talked to himself constantly about gravity - though
maybe that was Newton.’
‘And no trying to
be a detective,’ called Laura from the lounge. ‘Remember to just concentrate on
running the supermarket. Make sure there are enough bread rolls and other
important things.’
‘Absolutely,’ said
Ray.
He watched the rain
and thought about some of the possible reasons why Sherlock Holmes never
married.
A good post indeed.
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