Cravendish
CHAPTER SEVEN
The morning sun rose as reluctantly as Cravendish did himself, after the fourth alarm and the third coffee of the day, before showering in cold water to surprise his body into thinking it was in danger and surged the adrenaline into his system like a sighthound after spotting what it thought was coarse dancing through the hedges and taunting him into flight. Outside it wasn't much better. Although the sun was rising, it refused to turn on the heating until much later, so Cravendish chased the frost from the hard ground with his size thirteen's, leaving the imprint of a ghost with insomnia in the grass behind him. The town was always quiet, but especially so at this time, when no one was foolish enough to rise when they didn't really have to. There was the occasional dog walker, the jogger and the milkman, but the sensible were asleep, or tucked up, or, quite frankly, anywhere but right here, right now, as the early breeze ran up Cravendish's trouser leg and gave new meaning to the idiom of the infamous Brass Monkey's accoutrements.
The closer Cravendish insanely managed toward the beach, the more activity seemed to warm the air. Even the cold and the wind refused to be about that bunch of hooligans the Vicar was tending to right at that moment. But those blessed little bleeders were, in fact, engaged in the monotonous and unthankful task of setting up the beach for the Bi-Annual Event that dropped like a poorly made sandcastle upon Brayburn twice a year; the hundred and fifth Pro-Am Kite Flyer's Competition.
Once Cravendish's feet touched the rich dark sand of Brayburn Beach, Edmund Wright, the Vicar, sauntered over to Cravendish with all the vigour of a hairy tortoise recently returned from Wiltshire, "I am so glad to see you this morning, and I'm so pleased that you volunteered for this, Cravendish! Usually can't get anyone to lend a hand, don't you know? That Joyce Kindling woman - over efficient to the tune of a couple of quid, if you ask me." Cravendish didn't, and what was more, he didn't understand what it meant anyway.
A young boy of troubling years, looked up the creeping tower that was Cravendish and introduced himself with a little question, "You gay?"
Cravendish had to look quite a distance down before he spotted the boy with the slimy elevens under his nose, "Sorry, what?"
The boy licked at his stringy nose protrusions, "I said, are you gay? You deaf or summut?"
The Vicar took the small snail-like creature by his obviously tousled hair, "This is Keith. He's one of our more - excitable boys." explained the Vicar ineffectually.
But Keith had a thread and kept pulling, determined to unwind the sweater of Cravendish's mind or patience, whichever came loose first, "So? Are you gay?"
Cravendish had no immediate answer for this question, so simply replied, "No? Well, I'm not sure, but -"
It was enough for the irritable boy. He began bounding about the place with a secret untold, "This one's gay! Don't show him your arse, or he'll be bumming it!" His work was sMothered in praise by the guffaws of his compatriots, who pointed to Cravendish in crowd-controlled denouncement.
Cravendish really didn't like children at the best of times, and this certainly wasn't one of those best of times, "Well, now, that's -"
The Vicar waved the whole affair away with the swipe of his hand and a disarming smile in that way those closer to God managed, "Don't pay any attention! Like I said, he's just excitable!"
Cravendish was anxious to do his sworn duty and get away to more important things, "So, what is it you would like me to do, Vicar?"
"Edmund, surely?"
Cravendish's inner-voice said, well, actually surely not, if you don't mind, but his outer voice was more vocal and said, "Alright. What is it you would wish me to do, Edmund?" His inner voice blanched at the cowardice, then carried on mooning over Claire Ditherall and her perfect smile.
The Vicar thumped Cravendish a little too playfully on the arm. A lifetime of amateur boxing had built up that swing, whereas a lifetime of lifting cups and cigarette butts hadn't strengthened Cravendish's, "You know what they say, sprightly is the goosehound?"
"Is it? Do they?" managed Cravendish, at last. He could swear his inner voice was chuckling at him.
#
Cravendish somehow found himself working with a small group of children, marking out the competition squares for the Kite thing later, with wooden steaks, measuring each line to geometrical precision. What with the repetitive logic of it all, Cravendish eventually didn't feel so compelled to drown the little bleeders in the ever rescinding sea.
A boy not dissimilar to Keith, as were most of the children it turned out, even the girls, demanded attention. His name was Gary, apparently, "So what's your first name then?"
Cravendish answered with the automation of a vending machine, "Just Cravendish."
Lee, a similar Keith lookalike added, "What, so you don't have one?"
Cravendish suddenly felt himself being pulled into an eddy current he was swiftly becoming unable to swim out of, "No, I have one, but -"
Gary continued, knowing he had a creature in his snare, and all he had to do was go in and twist, "What is it then?"
Cravendish tried a disarming tone, but just ended up sounding guilty of something, "I just go by Cravendish."
Gary was circling, looking for a tender muscle, "Why? You got a girl's name?"
"I prefer not to use it -" spluttered Cravendish.
Gary was there, thinning out the herd, "So it's a girl's name! Is it Hilary? Sally? Hyacinth -"
Cravendish knew he was on the ropes and that the fighter coming for him had slipped a horseshoe into his leather glove, "No, I just prefer -"
At last the referee stepped in, seeing Cravendish was cut, "This bunch aren't trouble you, are they?" asked the Vicar, not really interested in the answer.
"Oh, no!" managed Cravendish, "It's -"
"Its 'cause he's got a girl's name!" shouted the Keith who was called Lee.
The Vicar rubbed his bearded chin and half a litre of flora and fauna fell out and scampered to safety, "No he hasn't. His name is Ro -"
"It's Cravendish." explained Cravendish, so fast that his mouth barely had time to catch up with the words he had spoken.
A flash of reality reinserted itself into the Vicar's mind when it was needed most and he enthused his reply, "Yes! Of course! Right you are! Well, carry on! The cold rabbit never snared the morning sun!"
"Quite." expressed Cravendish.
And still it wasn't over, as the Gestapo in short trousers continued their interrogation, "My Mom says you're a rubbish Detective." This one was called Toby.
Cravendish wasn't ready for it, "Really? Why would -"
"She says you don't know what you're doing." continued Toby, from his sandy pulpit, "She says when you came round to help her, you ate all her biscuits - and you smelled."
If Cravendish could have looked any more sheepish, he would have been sheared, "Well, that's not really -"
A little monster with spiky hair, and the name of Todd, joined in, "Yeah, my Dad said you wouldn't be able to find your arse if it fell out with your elbow. Dunno what that means, but -"
Another called Jake took a swing also, "Yeah. My Mom said you just -"
Cravendish came to his own defence, "Wow, your parents really do talk alot, don't they?"
This elicited a response from a slightly older girl, one who obviously revelled in the spotlight, as long as she could steal it, "My Mom said that if you weren't so weird, you'd be a sleuth. I looked that up. It means you would make some kind of hairy ape -"
"That's a sloth." corrected Cravendish, suddenly not so sure himself.
"Oh right. So what's the other one?" she asked.
"Another name for a Detective?"
The girl sounded surprised, as in the kind of surprise a lion feels when an antelope loses its sense of direction and strolls innocently into the lion's mouth, "Oh. But you're rubbish at that, ain't you?"
Cravendish, foolishly, felt a kindred spirit in the girl. If she was kindred to anything it would've been a Dickensian gutter snipe, "Well, I'll let you into a little secret. I'm on a case right now, about missing diamonds, and abduction -"
"Really?" The girl seemed genuinely interested.
Cravendish flushed in excitement, "Yes! Want to know about the case?"
The girl sniffed and turned, "Nah, not really. I prefer - you know - running about and stuff? See ya!" And she was off. But a voice stopped her suddenly in her tracks.
The Vicar raised his voice to that of Preacher level, "Julie? Julie Noted! Come back here! Give him it back, if you please!"
Julie shuffled her way back and stood before Cravendish, "Sorry, mate." She handed him back his wallet.
Cravendish took it with candour and a little hint of praise, "It's alright. You know, given a little training, you could make a sleuth yourself!"
Julie smiled wickedly, "Nah. Running about and stuff? Remember?"
Cravendish inwardly sighed, "Oh, okay. Still, nice skills."
Julie swiped Cravendish another smile, that would, in years to come, make men fight over her, probably, "Thanks, mate." And the girl left, taking a modicum of Cravendish's admiration with her.
The Vicar watched her leave also, unable to prevent himself from commenting, "She certainly is a tom boy that one, and no mistake. You don't know much about kids, do you, Cravendish?"
Cravendish turned his attention back to the Vicar, "Well, I remember being one once, but -"
The Vicar delivered his trademark punch, "Never mind! Look, take these leaflets over to the Belletrist Coffee House for me? It would take a weight off my mind! Never is a task done until its tentacles rise, eh?"
Maybe they would rise, maybe they wouldn't, but Cravendish wasn't waiting around to find out. He took the slab of leaflets from the Vicar, lifting off the top one from the pile to read as he walked.
They were to advertise the Pro-Am Kite Flyer's Competition, to be held later that day. Fabulous cash prizes, apparently. Fun for all from four to forty, from six to sixty and, inevitably eight to eighty. Exactly what fun could be gleaned from a handful of people with kites of varying sizes and designs crashing into each other in a tangle of string, wire and ultimately tempers, Cravendish had no idea. There was really only one attraction for him; Claire Ditherall, the Emerald of the Isle, the River of the Dance and the Head of the Guinness.
The Coffee House clientele that morning could have all squeezed into their Disabled Toilet and still have had room for more of the early-day latecomers. Claire looked bored until Cravendish entered, when she began to make a fuss of him, much to Cravendish's own delight. He asked the question, bringing forth the answer he so enlightenly craved, "Of course you can put them on the counter! Are you not looking forward to it? I know I am!" Claire turned the leaflet over and over in blatant excitement that it may entitle the holder to some fanciful adventure into a confectionery factory. It held nothing but contempt for Cravendish, though he would never utter such a phrase to Claire. Surely, if she liked it, it must hold some merit. It did mean that she would be attending, and that would lighten even the darkest of darknesses in the deepest darkest forests of a dark, dark land, where the sun never shone, and everyone dressed in black, just to fit in with the décor.
Were there not, in this world, two more opposite minds? Yet, didn't they say that opposites attract? Well, whoever they were, they had better get their act together, or there would be trouble, and soon.
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