When they got back to where the Cobb began, Carole announced that she’d better put Gulliver back in the car. “Nonsense,” said Jude. “There’ll be pubs we can sit outside. He’d much prefer that, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, he would,” conceded Carole, not convinced that dogs – or indeed anyone else – should be allowed to have what they preferred.
The pub they found was perfect, with lots of wooden tables at the front, commanding a view over the wide sweep of Lyme Bay. “I’ll get the first drinks,” said Jude and went into the bar.
First drinks, thought Carole. We’re meant to be going on a journey, not a pub crawl.
Jude came out with a menu. Carole had, as ever, had in mind a small lunch, but was persuaded that not to take advantage of the local seafood would be sacrilege. So they both forced themselves – not that there was much force required for Jude – to order the Three Fish Feast.
“I won’t eat this evening,” said Carole, but with diminishing conviction. She had a feeling that abstinence was never going to be a major feature of travels with Jude.
Her friend looked out over the summery blue of the bay and sighed. “Lyme Regis always does something for me.”
“Have you spent a lot of time here?”
“Nearby.”
“On your own?”
“No, with someone.” A deeper sigh. “It didn’t work out.”
“Ah.” Carole dared to ask a personal question. “Was that with Mr Metarius or Mr Nichol?”
“No.” And once again the moment was lost. “Incidentally, if you’re worried about Gaby, do give Stephen a call.” Jude looked at her mobile. “The signal here’s quite good.”
Carole thought what she’d said about her daughter-in-law had been sufficiently casual, but Jude had read the depth of her underlying anxiety. Resisting her first instinct to say no, she gratefully accepted the offer. Stephen was at work, doing whatever it was he did, but unusually he didn’t have his phone switched to voice–mail. No doubt leaving lines of communication from the hospital open. And the news about Gaby was better. Her blood pressure was down, but they still wanted to keep her in for observation. And Carole’s grandchild was moving around in a very vigorous and healthy manner.
“Thanks for that.” She handed the mobile back.
“No problem. I’d be worried sick, if it was happening to one of my children.”
Was this a hint of yet another secret from Jude’s past? Carole seized the opportunity. “Do you mean that you’ve actually had children?”
Her friend roared with laughter. “I can assure you that I would’ve told you by now if I had.”
“Yes.” Carole was about to say it was difficult to be sure, because Jude was always so secretive, but that didn’t seem entirely accurate. So she went on, “Have you ever regretted it?”
Jude screwed up her face wryly. “Not really. There have been a couple of times, with certain men, when I thought having a child would have put a seal on the relationship, but the timing was never right. And in each case I’m very glad it didn’t happen. A child would have made the break-up even harder. No…” She grinned. “I can’t say I feel unfulfilled as a woman.” She dropped into a New Age Californian accent for the words.
Then she laughed and, before Carole could pursue the subject, said, “Daft, aren’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Two middle-aged women wasting our money on a wild-goose chase to Cornwall.”
“Actually, Jude, so far we haven’t talked about the money. You did the booking on your credit card – well J. Metarius’s credit card.”
“You don’t have to worry. It is legitimate. It’s not identity theft when the identity you’re stealing is one of your own.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that. I just thought we ought to work out how we’re going to split the costs.”
“You’re providing the transport. You’ve paid for the petrol.” Jude shrugged. “Don’t worry. It’ll sort itself out.”
Carole was not of the opinion that money matters ever sorted themselves out, but she didn’t say anything. “Anyway, why do you say we’re on a wild-goose chase?”
“Well, what are we hoping to get out of our little trip? Based on the flimsiest of clues, we’re setting off to try and discover the Lockes’ lost Narnia. We must be out of our skulls.”
“You say the flimsiest of clues, but we have got the anagram of Biddet Rock from Treboddick.”
“Yes, but that could be a coincidence.”
“Unlikely.”
“All right, Carole, it probably is an anagram, but there’s no reason why it should have anything to do with the disappearance of Nathan Locke.”
“Do you think the girls knew it was an anagram? Chloe and Sylvia – or whatever their wretched nicknames are?”
“I wouldn’t think so. They’ve grown up with that Wheel Quest game. I doubt if they ever think about where the names come from.”
“So you don’t think they’d know where Nathan is?”
“I’d doubt it.”
“And do you reckon,” asked Carole, “that the person who made up the anagram was Rowley Locke?”
“It’d make sense, wouldn’t it, given what we know of his character?”
“Mmm.”
“So we’ve just got the one anagram,” said Jude, uncharacteristically negative. “I wish we had another clue to confirm that one. No, when I come to think about it, “wild-goose chase’ is a pretty accurate description.”
Carole was worried. She’d just relaxed into their journey. Her anxiety about Gaby had been relieved by the call to Stephen. And now her fragile equanimity was being threatened by Jude apparently being an unwilling partner in the enterprise. “Oh dear,” she said. “Do you wish we hadn’t come? You say it’s daft. Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“No,” replied Jude, her brown eyes sparkling. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.”
Twenty-Five
It was evening by the time they got to their destination. Treboddick was almost the furthest point of the British mainland, on the Atlantic Coast some miles north of Land’s End. Carole was not a speedy driver, and their journey had got slower as they progressed through Cornwall. She hadn’t been there since childhood holidays and the change that struck her most was the development of the tourist industry. Almost every house seemed to offer Bed and Breakfast, with such extra inducements as ‘En Suite Rooms’ and ‘Sky Television’. Every side turning was festooned with signs to hotels, pubs and other attractions. So many facilities were advertised that there seemed an air of desperation about their pleading. And the drabness of some of the towns their route skirted reinforced the suggestion that all was not well with the local economy.
Mopsa Locke had emailed directions to Jude, and they had a very clear map for the last part of their journey. After Penzance they had to turn north towards Newbridge, then take the road to Pendeen. From there on the route was on very minor roads and they certainly wouldn’t have found their way without the instructions. Carole drove cautiously along the high-banked lanes (“narrow, with passing places”), the Renault seeming to fit snugly between the sides as if on a green bobsleigh run. She sounded her horn frequently. What would have happened if she had met some demented local speeding in the other direction she did not dare to conjecture.
Finally they actually saw a sign to Treboddick, a mere three-quarters of a mile away. The road climbed upwards. They had glimpsed the sea many times on their journey and now, though it was invisible, they could sense its closeness. As the Renault breasted the hill, they suddenly saw the Atlantic in all its glory. The sun had just dropped behind the horizon, but its glow still flushed the sky. And outlined the jagged remnants of old mine workings on the clifftop, glowing through a twisted tower of rusty metal, the glass-free windows of a roofless pump house and the scattered rubble of other collapsed structures.