Brian Freemantle: The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin

‘Shit,’ said Charlie fervently. He pulled into the car park and looked at his watch. He hadn’t time to find an alternative. Not if he wanted to eat. All he had at the flat was cold beef.

Few people saw Charlie enter, because he didn’t want them to and had long ago perfected being unobtrusive. He reached the bar between a group of men to his left reallocating Britain’s oil wealth and a circle to his right undermining communist influence in Africa. The fruit machine was by the toilets. The people around had formed a kitty, in an effort to recover their money before closing time.

The barmaid was a blonde, tightly corseted woman with the bright smile that barmaids share with politicians. Charlie estimated she was about twenty years older than the pub.

‘Whisky,’ said Charlie, unwilling to risk the beer. There would be no danger, provided he restricted himself to two.

‘And lunch,’ he said, when the woman returned with the drink.

‘There’s mince,’ she offered doubtfully, looking behind her to the serving hatch.

‘No,’ said Charlie. At least last week they’d disguised it with instant mashed potato.

‘Bread and cheese?’

‘No.’

‘Beef salad?’

‘The guide book said three stars.’

‘Trouble in the kitchen.’

‘Bad day, then?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Beef salad,’ said Charlie, resigned. He’d overcooked the meat at home anyway.

The barmaid retreated to the kitchen hatch and Charlie looked around the bar, sipping his drink. There were pictures of men in flying gear standing alongside Battle of Britain aircraft, a propeller mounted over the bar and near the counter-flap a man who was obviously the landlord stood frequently touching the tips of a moustache that spread like wings across his face. Mechanic, guessed Charlie. He’d never met a World War II pilot who wore a moustache like that; something to do with the oxygen mask.

Professional as the barmaid, the landlord isolated a new face and detached himself from the African group, moving down the bar. As the man approached, Charlie was aware of the critical examination; the man kept any expression of distaste from his face. Charlie resolved to get his suit pressed. And perhaps a new shirt.

‘Afternoon.’

‘Afternoon.’

‘Sorry about the food. Fire in the kitchen.’

‘Can’t be helped,’ said Charlie.

‘Repaired by next weekend.’

‘Afraid I won’t be here then,’ said Charlie.

‘Didn’t think I recognised you. Just passing through?’

‘Just passing through,’ agreed Charlie. As always. Never the same place twice, always polite but distant in any conversation.

‘Nice part of the country.’

‘Very attractive.’

‘Been here since ’48,’ said the landlord, hand moving automatically to his moustache.

‘Straight after the war, then?’ said Charlie, joining in the performance. Why not? he thought.

‘More or less. You serve?’

‘Bit too young,’ said Charlie. ‘Berlin airlift was around my time.’

‘Not the same,’ dismissed the man.

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘Had a good war,’ said the landlord. ‘Bloody good war.’

Charlie avoided any reaction to the cliche. It sounded as obscene now as it had when he first heard it. The bastard who had taken over the department had had a good war. And tried to continue it, by setting him up to be killed.

‘There were a lot who didn’t,’ said Charlie.

The landlord looked at him curiously, alert for mocker) then relaxed.

‘Sorry for them,’ he said insincerely. ‘I enjoyed my time.’

His glass was empty, Charlie saw. He pushed it across to halt the reminiscence.

‘Could I have another? Large.’

‘Certainly.’

Charlie knew the man would expect to be bought a drink. But he decided against it, even though it was the first conversation he had had for more than twenty-four hours. He wondered how the man would react to know he was serving whisky to someone technically a traitor to his country.

The landlord returned with the drink and waited expectantly.

‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.

There was an almost imperceptible shrug as the man took the money and returned Charlie his change.

‘What line of business are you in, then?’ he asked, lapsing into the pub formula.

‘Traveller,’ said Charlie. It seemed the best description of the aimless life he now led. Even before Edith had been killed they had done little else but move nervously from one place to another.

‘Interesting,’ said the publican, as automatically as he fingered the moustache.

‘Sometimes,’ agreed Charlie.

The woman returned with the salad. The meat had been carefully cut to conceal the dried edges.

‘Looks very nice,’ said Charlie. Insincerity appeared to be infectious. Then again, it was always dangerous to draw attention to himself, even over something as trivial as complaining about a bad meal in a country pub. He manoeuvred himself on to a bar-stool and the landlord nodded and walked back to his group. Charlie sawed resolutely at the meat, examining his attitude. What right had he to criticise a man for whom the war had been the biggest experience of his life? Or feel contempt for opinionated Sunday lunchtime drinkers? Charlie was always honest with himself, because now there was no one else with whom he could share the trait. And he knew bloody well that he would have gladly handed over the fortune he possessed to change places with any one of them, walking stiff-kneed back to their detached, white-painted, executive-style homes to worry about their mortgages and their school fees and their secretaries’ becoming pregnant. His attitude wasn’t really contempt, he recognised. It was envy: envy for people who had wives and mistresses and friends. There was only one person whom Charlie could even think of as a friend. And there had been no contact from Rupert Willoughby for over a year. So perhaps he was even exaggerating that association.

He pushed away the meal half-eaten and immediately the barmaid took his plate.

‘Like that?’ she said.

‘Very nice,’ said Charlie. It was nearly closing time. She would be in a hurry to get away. He hesitated, decided against another drink and paid his bill. Another?5. And he was regarded as someone who had stolen money!

Back in the car, he sat for a moment undecided. If he took the B roads and drove slowly, it would be at least seven before he got back to London.

On the balcony of his apartment high on the island’s Middle Level, Robert Nelson stood, glass in hand.

‘Fantastic,’ he said, looking down at the Pride of America. The liner was an open jewel-case of glittering lights. Because it was late, the slur was more noticeable in his voice.

Beside him, Jenny Lin Lee said nothing.

‘I’ve taken six million of the cover,’ he announced, suddenly.

‘What?’ she asked, turning to him.

He smiled at her, wanting to boast.

‘Lu put the insurance out on the open market. Christ, you should have seen the scramble!’

‘But you got?6,000,000 of it?’

‘Yes,’ he said, missing the urgency in her voice. ‘Beat the bloody lot of them.’

He frowned at her lack of reaction.

‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he complained, petulant in his drunkenness. ‘No one else got anything like that much. There’s already been a cable of congratulation from London, signed by Willoughby himself. Even promised a bonus on top of the commission…’

‘If it’s important for you, then I’m pleased,’ she said, turning away from the balcony and the view of the floodlit ship, shifting slowly at anchor.

He followed her into the room.

‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I find it completely impossible to understand you.’