Bread

THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY

  We landed in Houston, Texas, the U.S. of A at around nine in the evening local time. It is such a lovely feeling to get out of a plane where the air is still and cold, to be engulfed by warm, humid air, blowing in on a light breeze. Especially at night time. There’s something magical about that. I could definitely get used to it.

  Both of us being quite tired from the flight, we checked into the nearest place we could find - the imaginatively named North Houston Hotel - and went straight to bed. Well, to our rooms at least. I ordered a toasted sandwich which was very nice although they sent up far too much for one person. Four sandwiches - that is eight rounds of bread - sliced in half in the traditional Breville manner, with so much salad and garnish that I wondered whether they thought I’d brought a horse with me. Is this the normal amount Americans eat? Surely not!

  At around eight the next morning I went for breakfast and caused a bit of a to do when I asked for tea. You see, the waitress patrolled the breakfast area like a shark, with a huge pot of coffee that smelt as strong as hot tar in one hand and a jug of cream in the other, permanently on the look out for refills. So I threw her out of her stride a bit really, asking for tea. And then when it came it had a slice of lemon in it. I apologised to her, but asked if she could take it back and bring me a pot of tea, a cup, some milk and some sugar.

  “I’m English,” I explained when I saw a peevish look creeping across her face. That seemed to explain everything. Geeza joined me not long after my tea arrived and he got another cup for himself. We were marked men by then, so this time it came without any fuss.

  “English Breakfast tea for you sir,” the waitress popped the cup down in front of my friend and then whipped out a pad and a pen as fast as Quick Draw McGraw – we are in cowboy country I suppose. She must practice in her time off. “Would you English gentlemen like to order anything else?” she asked with only a hint of venom.

  “Err, toast I think,” I ventured and looking at Geeza he nodded in agreement. “Yes, toast for two – just two people, no horses.” The joke had come out before I could stop it, but she didn’t get it. Instead she simply stared at me as if I’d just stepped down from the Freak Show, but then her basic training kicked in and a Pavlovian gushing of exhaustive choices came out – the same as I’d had the previous night.

  “Ok sir, will that be white, brown, thick, thin, granary, wholemeal, linseed, sesame seed, poppy seed, pumpkin seed, soda bread, potato bread, fruit loaf, nut loaf, salted, unsalted, low fat, or gluten free?”

  I was stunned into choosing white, for simplicity’s sake, but Geeza went for wholemeal.

  “Ok, and what would you like with it?”

  “I’ll take jam,” Geeza butted in as her mouth opened to bombard us with a billion different options. It was a shrewd move on his part; I think I’ll be sticking to jam from now on. I made the mistake of asking for a couple of fried eggs and the barrage that hit me next stunned me.

  “How would you like your eggs sir?” I was asked.

  As I had already told her ‘fried’ my confused reply was a rather hesitant: “Err, cooked please.” I don’t know whether it was scorn or pity in her eyes.

  “No sir,” she said with hands well and truly on hips by now, “you can have crisp or soft-edged, runny on top, sunny side-up, soft yolked, medium yolked, hard yolked, over easy, double easy, under easy, easy under, rolled, disturbed, flattened, and with or without bacon crispies.” There may have been more, but I stopped listening after I heard sunny side-up, the only option I was familiar with – I didn’t like the sound of disturbed at all! I decided not to ask whether they were free-range or not. I am not sure what you had to do to get run out of town around here, but the look on the waitress’ face gave me the impression that I was not far off.

  We got hold of a rental car and drove down to Palacios, a little over a hundred miles taking the route we did. This town, on the coast of Matagorda Bay, was to be the first port of call in the States for the Snowy-downed Swan. Our plan was to find out when it was due in and then simply lie in wait.

  Down at the seafront we learned from the harbour master, a Mr Silas Perriwinkle (pronounced Per-eye-winkle) that the ship was owned by Tex Bullmer, an oil billionaire who was usually found in Bingo’s Bar and Bait Shop at this time of day. It was only just down the road and he gave us directions.

  Mr. T. W (‘double-ya’) Bullmer was a larger than life, stereotypical Texan (where men are men, and all that). Despite the heat, he was togged up in a business suit, shirt, one of those little string ties they wear down here and of course his hat. Everybody had a hat on round here. His huge, bushy moustache accentuated the large, loud mouth it nestled above and his ten decibel laugh drowned out the strains of some Kenny Roger’s song about a highwayman that was coming from a large fifties style juke-box on the far wall.

  We approached him as he stood leaning up against the bar, where his bottle of Budweiser made wet rings on the worm-eaten, wooden surface. Seeing us approach, his companion stood from the stool on which he had been lazily slouched, adjusted his faded red baseball cap and bade Bullmer farewell, stuffing his half-emptied packet of Marlboroughs into the top pocket of his chequered shirt.

  “Yeah, so long Orville!” boomed Bullmer and then “Morning folks, what can we do for you?” He walked around to the business side of the bar. “Jerry’s gone. He’ll not be long. What can I getcha?”

  Without waiting for a reply he pulled two fresh bottles of Bud out of an old chest freezer full of ice and opened them up, plonking one each down on the bar in front of us. I was not so keen to start drinking this early in the day, but if this was the way the man worked, you had to play along - Geeza explained this to me later on; that men like him lived life the way they did and expected everybody else to follow suit. If you wanted to get in with them, you just had to wade right in.

  “We’re actually looking for a Tex Bullmer,” I started.

  “We need to ask him about his boat” Geeza finished.

  Tex pursed his lips and nodded his head – he didn’t seem in the least put off by my friend’s direct approach. Again, Geeza told me later that with men like this you are better off being straight to the point. How he can weigh someone up so quickly is a little spooky to be honest; uncanny. The Texan shrugged and held his hands up as if in surrender.

  “Well here I am. You got me at least. I’m Tex Bullmer,” he said to me and then switched his gaze to Geeza. “Which boat though mister? I have to tell you I’ve got a few.”

  “Oh right,” Geeza replied. “It’s the Snowy-downed Swan we’re interested in. It’s a bit cheeky I know, but could you tell us when and where exactly she’ll be coming into dock? We’re hoping to interview one of the passengers for our magazine. I know she’s not due in for a few days yet, but we thought we’d better get here early to make sure we had rooms – before all the big boys from the media get into town and pack the place out.”

  Not bad. I was impressed, I have to say. To come up with a credible story like that on the spur of the moment… I hadn’t actually given a thought to what we would say to the man once we’d found him. However, my admiration for Geeza’s sleight-of-tongue was shredded in an instant by the bombshell Tex dropped on us.

  “Guys, I don’t know what magazine you work for, but your editor’s sent you on a buck run for nothing.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “There ain’t hardly anyone left on the Swan by now. Most of them got off in the Azores. All those celebrity-types were then jetting off to go skiing.”

  “Skiing?” I almost dropped my beer.

  “Yep. That’s how it was all set up. I didn’t have anything to do with it; it was all their people and my people if you know what I mean, but I think that’s how it was arranged.”

  “But, but…” I couldn’t believe it. “Wha- what? Where?”

  “Do you know where they all went skiing?” Geeza helped me out.

  “Ohh, all over. Some in the Alps; over in Color
ado, a couple of spots in California and up in Canada as well I think.” He looked long and hard at me then. Then to Geeza and back to me again. He knew something was not quite right. “Which magazine are you guys with?”

  Now I was all set to panic at that point. First of all because where the hell had he gone, but also because if this Tex knew we were lying to him then how were we ever going to find out? That was it for me. We had lost him. We had failed. Geeza though just took a long swig of his bud.

  “It’s called the Microcosm,” he said, totally unfazed. “I doubt you’ll have heard of it. It’s a glossy full-colour, a bit like the National Geographic only much, much smaller. We’ve really only got a circulation in England, but there’s a couple of dozen foreign clients on mail order.” He grimaced. “And it’s not the editor who screwed up unfortunately. It was my call to come here.

  “We were in France when the Swan set off, but my friend’s francais is limited and I don’t speak a word.” He slapped me on the back. “Never mind Elliot. We can blame the French press eh?”

  Mr. Vermies had stunned me with his composure and his ability to carry on despite everything. For my part I was able to back up his ever more elaborate story by looking totally crestfallen. It was not an act.

  Thanks to our misunderstanding the French papers we had come out here on a wild goose chase - that ‘buck run’ Bullmer had mentioned. We had totally wasted out time. Worse than that though, we now had absolutely no idea where Humphries was. He could be anywhere by now. Anywhere in the world.

  I took a long drink myself and Tex pulled another couple out of the freezer and one for himself. He seemed to be weighing us up.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “You tell me who it is you’re after; I’ll give the captain a call, see if he’s still on board.”

  “But I thought you’d said-”

  “Most I said, not all of them. There’s one or two of them going all the way with us – I’m joining them myself when she gets here, then we’re going on to the Keys and then the Bahamas. That’s journey’s end. So come on,” he flicked open his phone, “what’s the guy’s name?” I was totally speechless, but Geeza pounced.

  “Alan Humphries he’s called. A mathematics professor and rally driver – I know, I know, but he’s one of these… geniuses; eccentric. Brilliant, but eccentric.”

  Bullmer strode away from the bar and propped himself against the jukebox as he spoke to the Swan’s captain. I turned to Geeza, a million and one questions on my lips, but he shhhhh’d me into silence, motioning for me to stay calm.

  “Thanks Mike,” we heard the Texan’s big voice fill the silence as the jukebox changed songs. “Ok,” he said to us back at the bar, “it’s not good, but it’s not all bad. Your professor got off with the rest of them – sorry. I can tell where he’s headed though; the ship’s staff arranged the flight. He’s gone to Canada. To Banff. You know where that is?”

  “Not really,” I almost laughed, “but we’ll find it.” Unbelievable! The gods must really be shining down on us! “Thank you Mr. Bullmer, thank you so much!”

  “Yeah sure,” he replied gruffly, a little embarrassed. “Look I don’t normally give out information like this, but there’s something about the two of you I like. I don’t know what it is - Hell, I know you haven’t been real straight with me, but I’ve a hunch that you’re being that way for a good reason.” My heart froze as he started to say this, but unnecessarily as it turned out. “Whatever you two boys are up to, that’s your business, not mine, but it feels right from where I’m standing and folks round here’ll tell you Tex Bullmer is a man who trusts his instincts. You got to ride your luck in this life and maybe this is one of your lucky breaks.

  “Ok, I gotta go now, so you can leave the money on the bar for Jerry. I’m thinking you’ll be wanting to get away yourselves.”

  We threw a few dollars beside our empty bottles and got to our feet. He turned the sign hanging in the door to ‘Closed’ as we all left the bar.

  “Bye now and good luck to you!” he barked, turning his back and leaving us there on the doorstep. He climbed into a monstrously large, silver pick-up parked across the street and drove off with an easy wave.

  I guess Geeza was right – perhaps taking those beers had worked after all.

  So then it was off to Canada. Touching down at Calgary International Airport just under two days after our meeting with Tex we took the main road, or I suppose I should say highway – or is it a Freeway up here? I shall have to ask. Even though for the most part it is only an imaginary line that separates the U.S from their Canadian cousins, I have discovered that they feel the distinction as keenly as a Scotsman falsely accused of being English. Anyway, whatever they call the road, this one passes through the Stoney Indian Reservation, on past the town of Canmore and finally takes the weary traveller into the township of Banff, high in the Rocky Mountains. The journey took us a couple of hours after appropriating yet another hire car.

  The Rockies form a pretty obvious natural border between Alberta, where we were, and British Columbia or BC as the locals say, but it was long before we reached them that I had some ‘subtleties’ pointed out by several people.

  “No, no, no!” I was told when I asked in all innocence what State I was in. “This is Canada; we don’t have ‘States’ here! We have Provinces.” And then, as I forgot and dropped it into conversation again getting the car:

  “Hey!” a warning finger was wagged my way. “You’re not in America now. We have Provinces here!”

  I get the impression that it is important to them, so I’ve not made the mistake more than a couple of times.

  We were around three thousand metres above sea level here and whilst the cold was noticeable it was the thinness of the air that I found more immediately apparent. Geeza ended up having to drive nearly the whole way, as it was all I could do to restore my laboured breathing as I grew gradually more accustomed to the altitude. Finding rooms at the Kicking Horse Lodge Resort - named after an incident which gave it’s name to a mountain pass some twenty five miles north of us - we dumped our bags and freshened up before going down to the bar and restaurant.

  We decided to have a pre-prandial slurp of something, so we each ordered a cocktail at the bar as our food was being cooked. Mine was a Rocky Mountain Gringewhistler, with Geeza choosing to knock back an Albertan Certain Headwrangler. Interesting drinks to say the least and both had the essential warming properties we were looking for.

  Seating ourselves at a table by a stove chimney where some fairly huge logs were crackling away, we settled down to eat. Half way through the main course though, Geeza suddenly dropped his fork on his plate and stared wide-eyed at a couple of jet-setters, obviously very well to do, togged out in fake fur, jewellery and hair by Marcel, who were guzzling champagne at the bar.

  He seemed in one way to be excited and in another quite desperate, muttering away to himself in a disturbing way something about “the eyes, the eyes,” and “the trail is getting cold.” When I finally managed to shake him out of his own little world and ask him what the problem was, he stared hard at me and took a deep breath before speaking. “Elliot,” he said, “he’s been and gone.”

  This time it was my cutlery that felt gravity’s embrace. Gone? Already? Where the hell’s he gone now? Buggeration!

  ***