Chapter Eleven: On the Nature of Sacrifice
Its lone siren wailing, the Enfield moved slowly out of the market on its way to Port Royal, Dwayne tall in the saddle and Fidel straight and impressive in the sidecar. He'd lost the who's-driving toss – again – but his chief had put the rings solely in his keeping and he was conscious of the importance of his charge. Above on the station balcony, Poole was bellowing last-minute instructions after them.
"It's on my ticket, mind! Don't let him diddle you! And no dawdling on the way back!"
He watched his men out of sight and then made to pull out the booklet and pen, freezing suddenly when he noticed every unoccupied person in the market slowly beginning to drain to a spot just under where he stood. They were smiling.
One of them waved, and there was a clapping sound, which swelled into applause and ragged cheers. Poole grinned defensively, shrunk back a bit, and did a one-handed 'It's all right, no need to come up' gesture in place of a wave. Then he ducked back out of sight, pen and paper clutched in his tight fists. What was that about?
He'd made it halfway back to his desk when he noticed his sergeant glaring at him from her desk chair, tapping a pencil decidedly on her paperwork. He knew instinctively a wave wasn't going to settle this one.
"Um – Camille?"
"We need to talk," she told him
That's what he'd been afraid of. Still . . . Poole braced himself. "Well, of course; only, my parents are due this morning on the ferry and that docks at 9:45, so . . . um."
Camille tapped her desk once more. "About the costume, the 'clobber', as you say. I called Wiley. He says you have still not reserved a tuxedo."
"Ah. That's because I didn't know when the ceremony was, you see. There are rules for these things." Poole edged over to his desk, slipping the pen and booklet away as unobtrusively as he could manage as he moved. It wasn't easy. "Gray tails or frock coats for morning, gray suits for afternoon and black tie for evening, unless white tie is specified, but that's only after, um . . . seven." He paused to swallow. She was watching him like a snake does a macaw chick, helpless on the floor of the rainforest. "What, uh, what time is the, er –" he moved a wrist so his index finger described tiny circles in the air as he searched for the word.
Camille sighed. "Five o'clock."
"Oh, well!" Poole sidled back toward his chair, aiming for the briefcase. "That's problematic, then, because that's just in the crack between, um . . ."
"Don't you want to look your best, Richard?" He had heard more wheedling tones from an earthmover.
"A business suit is correct at all times," he blustered. "I'm just being practical!"
It was a mistake. Camille was beginning to choke on practicality. She wanted the picky little wedding details to be done and dusted so they could get on to the romantic part. With a frustrated huff, she let go a cherished dream of seeing him in black tie and pushed on. "Will Teague has offered us a lovely villa for the honeymoon at half price," she told him with forced pleasantry. "Then we can live in the beach house until –"
"No. Oh, no," Poole told her back. He was thinking of the hideously exposed shower. "That's no place for a new bride."
"Then we will have the alternative." Camille was getting up out of her chair now. "Maman has an apartment in the back of the bar, right next to hers. We –"
"Oh, no! Nonono!" It sounded frantic. "I m-mean, who's going to feed Harry?"
"It's one or the other!" Camille was just on the lip of the volcano. "You don't think we can buy a house, do you, with what we earn?"
"Yes, of course!" For one shining moment, Richard Poole looked happy. "But um, maybe . . . not right away?"
Camille said something in French that Poole was unsure he could have spelt even if he knew what it meant, and was certain he'd be too embarrassed to spell if he could. "Well, you know," he put in hurriedly, "the um, happy medium and all that sort of thing. Things done in the proper order, just like an investig-mmm." The words were quelled under the look he was getting.
He would have had worse, but at that moment Catherine swept in, a swirl of tropical reds and mauves, a large basket in her hand.
"I brought the lunch," she announced, although it was not even mid-morning yet, and La Kaz did not deliver.
For three seconds by the clock there was a dead silence; then Catherine was swooping forward and Camille was catapulting toward her and the basket was forgotten on the desk, and the two were hugging and crying and squealing in French, and Poole quietly left his briefcase to its own devices and slipped out the back way by the cells. Living one's life with passion, he felt, was highly overrated.
...
On Saint-Marie, rain just rolls in off the Atlantic with no care as to how it may affect the lives of those it dumps on. Poole had often resented his suit being spotted by one of its "sunshine specials". But there were advantages, in that squalls cleared the air.
Camille was bright and lovely again, even nervous, as the little ferry port disgorged its usual compliment of chickens in cages (mostly), goats, the host of island inhabitants and its garnish of tourists. Jennifer Poole appeared, appropriately dressed in a garish floral print, glowing in the sun and yet basking in the shade of her husband Graham, decked in khakis and polo and sporting tactical sunshades. They seemed happy: Jennifer squeezed Camille and kissed her repeatedly between excited chatter about their trip, and when Richard offered his hand to his father, he was pulled by it into a brief but fierce hug.
"I brought it, son," his father muttered into Poole's ear, and rattled the luggage being dragged behind, with two suit bags fastened securely on top.
"And Camille, dear, this is for you." From the capacious tote bag over her shoulder, Jennifer pulled out a flattish box about a foot long and half as wide.
"Aww, mum!" Poole said as soon as he saw it.
Camille opened it there and then, her hands unsteady. She had been so afraid Richard's parents, who knew her only as their son's sergeant, would find it hard to accept her as a daughter-in-law, but this gift would prove . . . oh.
What was it?
It was composed of two shiny wooden hearts tucked inside what looked like a rib cage, and that was fitted at one end with a wooden lock, complete with keyhole and surmounted by a small wooden cross, patterned in dots and triangles. On the other end was a small, round, flattened wooden bowl. It was all intricately and expertly carved and handsome, if strange.
Poole ahemmed. "It's a love spoon," he muttered, reddening up to match the gleaming wood. "They make them for couples to hang up in their homes . . . for good luck."
"Carved to order for you two," Jennifer added, "with the voudon theme and the cross . . . I am sorry, dear, but I just couldn't see having a death's head on it."
"Carved to order for . . . mum, these things take months!" Poole protested.
"Oh, as if we hadn't seen it coming, darling!" his mum replied brightly, and dad threw in "Her name in every other email, son? Dead giveaway."
Camille being Camille, she accepted the gift as it was given, and kissed her thanks to her prospective in-laws as they all admired the ring. Poole being Poole, he looked on with a little cloud of the rain from before settling in his chest. Because, in his private thoughts, having a house to hang this spoon in meant the ultimate sacrifice.
...
On one of the chaotic looping crescents in the warren of streets in the Upper Norwood area, west of Crystal Palace Park in Croydon, there stands a modest two-bedroom house, part of a row, with a tiny patch of grass in back and a tinier patch in front, complete with bins. Many years ago it was taken by a young police sergeant and paid for over time by careful scraping and saving out of his meagre wages. It was modestly furnished in a style comfortable if not luxurious in any way, in the expectation that someday, there would be a Mrs Richard Poole to bring into it. The back bedroom was just large enough for one child; by the time there were children Poole would be looking for another house, closer to the schools and perhaps, if he was lucky, to one of the parks . . .
The lady had, of course, never materialized. Poole could only put that down to some flaw in himself. He still hadn't quite worked out why Sasha had chosen James Moore.
Now, with real estate prices soaring, the Croydon house was worth a fortune, and every week brought emails from new agents, offering to buy it. Poole's long-cherished dream of someday having a family in his own native land would be gone with that house.
Nor had he been putting Camille off when he told her that one day, he would return to London. That was a given. But in order to have a house he could hang up this spoon in, that would mean –
Well. Going home was just going to take a bit longer than he'd thought, almost four years ago now when his small plane had touched down at the Saint-Marie air strip.