ARROGANCE
a novel by
Boarding a P&O car ferry at Dover at three o’clock on a summer morning ranks in the same league as crossing one of the world’s last challenging frontiers. Charlie Tindal queued his Volvo estate at the end of a line of half a dozen cars, facing a big neon sign flashing plugs for cheap booze and tourist attractions. A couple of vans bound on mystery missions waited silently. A line of huge trucks taking exports abroad or returning home after deliveries in Britain seemed to sleep. Scattered insomniac seagulls hung around, hoping for discarded sandwich crumbs. A disembodied female voice told anyone caring to listen that a boat was about to load.
Then a couple of men in fluorescent jackets beckoned the line of cars forward. The driver of one had vanished, or slept, and the other cars circled out to skirt around it gingerly, heading up a ramp into a waiting ferry. The boat’s cardeck opened into a huge white empty metal cavern, and Charlie eased forward slowly, moving at a bare walking pace whilst a crewman beckoned him on: though it seemed a superfluous exercise, given the lack of traffic. Jennifer Tindal was already bundling two pillows up into a large bag.
Charlie effectively worked for Jennifer, a successful antique dealer sharing a shop in Fulmer, a smart little village set in the middle of the gin and tonic belt. Two years had now passed since his redundancy from a good City job, and he was too old at fifty-five to find a new one. Tall, and dark, and charming, but too old. Redundancy depressed him, particularly as Jennifer was prospering. She now considered herself the power in the Tindal household, and had grown more than a little bossy. She knew it, but felt that she had to be. Charlie lacked push, whilst she still had a future: blonde and blue-eyed, elegant in her late forties. The shop was doing well - she partnered another dealer called Freddie Hoskins, a rather gay man given to bow ties and floral waistcoats, and felt Charlie should defer to her now that she was the main Tindal family breadwinner. The Tindals crossed to France every Sunday, buying interesting bits: Charlie drove, and bargained, because he spoke fluent French, and cleaned and polished. Jennifer chose, and commanded. The trips were rewarding, and she knew that she was paying the bills.
The P&O crewman held up his hand, and Charlie pulled on his handbrake, switched off his engine, and got out of the car. He had to wait for a moment before he could lock up, because Jennifer was fussing about, tidying up. But then he secured the Volvo, and followed his wife through a narrow doorway and up a steep staircase leading to the passenger decks. He puffed a little as he climbed, for Charlie’s waistline was beginning to bulge. But Jennifer had a bicycle tucked away in their garden shed, and he was certain that one day he would use it. One day.
Jennifer headed purposefully for a small bar area with bench seats close to the top of the stairs. This was her favoured parking place, because it would allow them both to stretch out undisturbed with their pillows and sleep through the seventy-five minute crossing to Calais. Tindal watched her building a nest, and hovered, because he had business to transact. Jennifer explored assorted junk markets around London during the week, seeking interesting bits, and Charlie hoovered up foreign coins and banknotes from assorted market traders as a sideline, for Jennifer disapproved of him frittering money away, and pocket money could sometimes be scarce. Today he had some dollar bills and a handful of Swiss francs. He would be able to change them on the boat without paying commission, because he held a P&O Platinum Voyager loyalty card, and he would have enough for a few beers.
He made his excuses and wandered off, seeking the boat’s Bureau De Change. A handful of truckdrivers were already queueing to change wads of sterling into fistfuls of euros, and he waited patiently. A big man with a shaven head, wiry and tough in a black leather jacket, stood close behind him, breathing down his neck.
‘Good time to do business.’ The man’s voice was conversational. He had a London accent, and plainly wanted to chat.
Charlie nodded non-commitally. The obvious was not much basis for a dialogue.
‘They give you a good rate.’
Charlie nodded again. The man had the look of a boxer, with a dented nose, possibly broken in a fight at some time, and Charlie judged that he was not a man to cross or ignore. The truck driver in front of him moved away, and he tugged his Voyager card from his wallet. ‘It is when you don’t pay commission.’
The man eyed the card questioningly, and Charlie grinned, because he could see by the look on the man’s face that he had scored a point. Then he was pushing his dollars and swiss francs at the shirtsleeved P&O cashier. The cashier counted his money quickly, stabbing at a small keyboard, and pushed a couple of tenners and some pound coins back at him. It was not a great deal of money, but cash is always cash.
He stepped away to made room for the big man and paused to tuck the tenners into his wallet. Now he could sleep his way to Calais and then drive the best past of a hundred miles to Courrieres, a small town between Lens and Douai. He would effectively drive on his own, for Jennifer saw no useful purpose in watching the sun rise over Northern France: she would close her eyes as he accelerated away from Calais harbour, and sleep soundly as he hummed on steadily, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the car radio. Charlie liked the peace, preferring to travel with local radio stations that crackled to life before fading again, preferring to daydream. One day something would happen, and his fortunes would turn, One day something would happen, and a new life would beckon. One day something would happen, and Jennifer and her shop would fade and melt away, like a passing radio station.
A voice brought him back from his thoughts. ‘Hold on, squire. Like a word.’ It was the big man: he was hurrying after Charlie with a determined look on his face.
Charlie hesitated. He had changed his money, and his pillow was calling.
‘You had a loyalty card.’ The man’s voice trailed away enquiringly.
Charlie tugged out his wallet. The P&O card looked much like a credit card, but possessed rather more limited benefits. P&O had once discounted on-board drink and tobacco prices to cardholders, but European convergence had then sunk duty-free shopping, and Charlie secured ticket discounts by booking on the Net. But it still saved him having to pay commission for onboard currency transactions.
The man took the card and turned it gingerly in his fingers. ‘You travel a lot?’
Charlie shrugged. People who questioned were generally motivated by a purpose, and he disliked playing blind poker.
‘Useful man to know.’ The man murmured his words: he might have been speaking to himself. Then he snapped out of his reverie. ‘Tell you what, I’ll buy you a brandy.’
Charlie made a face. He was not a man to refuse a free offer, but he had other priorities.
‘You won’t regret it, squire.’ The big man smiled. He had cold black eyes and shark teeth, and his smile was pitched somewhere between amiability and a kind of suppressed aggression. ‘I could use somebody who travels a lot. Make it worthwhile. Know what I mean?’
Charlie had a pretty good idea. The big man wanted a courier of some kind, someone who could ferry things backwards and forwards, buried deep under Tindal junk purchases. Things that would not be remarked when they travelled with an unremarkable British middle-aged couple. He had heard of such approaches from acquaintances.
He stared at his companion coolly. But the big man had already turned away, heading purposefully for the bar, and after a moment of indecision he followed. Free brandy was free brandy, after all, and need commit him to nothing. Perhaps he would make a useful contact, and a few bob, importing a carton of cigarettes or two – because neither Charlie nor Jennifer smoked. It might even add a sense of adventure. But he would do nothing, absolutely nothing, that might lead on to peril. No packets of hash, no little bags of white powders. No danger.
The big man might have looked mean, but he was generous with his alcohol. He held out a very large cognac as Charlie reached the bar, before extending a meaty paw. ‘Name’s Charlie. What’s yours?’
Charlie grinned. ‘I’m Charlie as well.’
‘Like it.’ The big man downed his brandy in a single gulp. ‘Care for another?’
Charlie hated to refuse, but his bench was calling. ‘I’ve got to sleep.’
‘Going far?’
‘Some markets.’
The big man raised an eyebrow.
‘We look for antiques. My wife owns a share in a shop, I can speak French.’
‘Hence the Volvo?’ The big man plainly had sharp eyes.
‘Every antique dealer should have one.’
‘I’ve got a Mercedes Sprinter you could borrow from time to time.’ The big man’s thrust was clear. A Sprinter could carry a good deal more than a Volvo stationwagon.
Charlie grinned. ‘We do all right.’ Brevity of speech was catching. But he felt questions earned counter questions. ‘What do you do?’
‘Me?’ The big man’s eyes were as opaque as black glass walls. He did not look like a man to be free with information. ‘I travel a bit, buy and sell stuff, move things about.’ The hardness in his tone gainsaid further probing. He eyed his empty glass thoughtfully, and then reached into his hip pocket and tugged a wallet free. ‘Tell you what, here’s my card. If you ever buy anything big, and need more space, just bell me. If you ever need any help, I’ll be there.’
He had already moved off as Charlie glanced at the card, no doubt scouting for other potential messengers. The card was very plain: just the name ‘Charles Smith’, in neat italic script, and a mobile phone number. Charlie tucked it into his wallet as he headed back to his bench seat. He doubted whether he would ever use it, but nobody should ever ditch a useful contact with a Mercedes Sprinter.
Jennifer lifted her head sleepily as he bedded down on a bench seat. ‘Who was that?’
Charlie was brief. ‘A man who wanted to buy me a drink.’
‘Lots of questions?’ Jennifer had also heard of prowling men on crossed-Channel ferries.
‘A few.’
‘You sent him packing, of course.’ Her voice rose slightly. Jennifer was always keen to turn a penny or two, but she disliked taking risks.
Charlie smiled reasuringly. ‘Of couse.’ But he had stowed Charlie Smith’s card safely away in his wallet, just in case.
He settled on his pillow and was soon fast asleep, snoring gently. Jennifer turned irritably, and moved away from him. She was a light sleeper herself, and Charlie’s snoring got on her nerves. It was of a piece with him, and she had begun recently to find him increasingly difficult: sometimes she wondered whether she might not be much better off without him. Life would be so much easier if she only had the shop to think about, without having a useless man under her feet. But then she drifted away as well, and soon they were snoring in unison.
A passing steward woke them as the boat docks at Calais. They took it in turns to make their way blearily to the ship’s toilets and then trundled back down the steep stairs to the car deck. Moments later Jennifer was fast asleep again as Charlie searched for a radio station.