Free Firefly Gadroon by Jonathan Gash Page A

which in one hour makes—
    ‘Lovejoy. For heaven’s sake !’
    Dolly had gathered her camelhair coat tight about her, clutching the collar at her chin. Her hair was lashing about her face. I’d never consciously noticed before, but women in high heels bend one leg and lean the foot outwards when they’re standing still. In a rising wind they exaggerate the posture. Odd, that. She was on the seaward side of me, caught against the pale scudding sky. She looked perished and had to shout over the racket of the gale and the musical masts.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ she shrieked. ‘Lovejoy. Stop daydreaming. We could be home, with a fire . . .’
    ‘You’re beautiful, Dolly.’
    Her face changed. She can’t have heard but saw my lips move. She stepped to me, letting go of her coat, which snapped open and almost tugged her off her feet. We reached for each other, all misty, and this bloody donkey came between us. Its wet nose ploshed horribly into my palm.
    ‘Christ !’ I leapt a mile. We’d found Germoline.
    ‘Morning, Lovejoy. Miss.’
    My heart was thumping while I wiped my hand on my sleeve. It had frightened me to death. Dolly was livid. Normally she’d have scurried about for some bread, or whatever you give donkeys, but just now I could tell she could have cheerfully crippled it. She muttered under her breath and concentrated on not getting blown out to sea.
    ‘Wotcher, Drummer.’ He had his estuary gear on, the tartan beret with its bedraggled tuft. Still the battered sand-stained clogs and the scarf trailing across the mud, the frayed cuffs and battledress khaki turn-ups. His donkey looked smaller if anything. I wondered vaguely if they shrank.
    ‘Say hello to Germoline, then.’ He grinned at Dolly. ‘She loves Lovejoy.’
    Dolly managed a distant pat. Germoline stepped closer and leant on me. This sounds graceful but isn’t. She wears a collar made from an old tyre with spherical jingle-bells, the sort that adorn reindeer so elegantly. Usually you can hear her for miles. The din of the boats had submerged her approach. Add to that the problem of her two-wheeled cart – it holds four children on little side benches – and even the friendliest lean becomes a threat. Anyhow I leant back, feeling a right pillock.
    ‘Want a ride?’ Every time Drummer grins his false teeth fall together with a clash. Whatever folk say about our estuary, I’ll bet it’s the noisiest estuary in the business.
    ‘A word,’ I bawled.
    ‘My house, then.’
    I scanned the estuary without ecstasy. Over the reed-banks stands Drummer’s shed, looking impossible to reach across dunes and snaking rivulets that join the sea a couple of furlongs off. A row of proper houses stands back behind the wharf where the pathway joins the main road, aloof from the seaside rabble. The tallest of them is a coastguard station. It’s not much to look at but it has those masts and a proper flagpole and everything. Joe Poges was on his white-railed balcony with binoculars. He waved. Joe’s one of life’s merry jokers, but all the same I quite like him. His missus gives Drummer dinner now and then. Knowing how much I would be hating all this horrible fresh air, Joe did a quick knees-bend exercise and beat his chest like Tarzan. It was too far to see his grin but I knew he’d fall about for days at his witticism and tell everybody they should have seen my face. I waved and the distant figure saluted.
    ‘That’s Joe, Miss,’ Drummer explained, his teeth crashing punctuation. ‘Home, Germoline.’
    Dolly tried clinging to my arm on the way over but I shook her off. I was in enough trouble. There was no real path, just patches of vaguely darker weeds showing where the mud would hold. Twice I heard Dolly yelp and a quick splash. Life’s tough and I didn’t wait. I was too anxious to put my feet where Germoline put hers. Halfway across the sea marsh Germoline turned of her own accord facing me and waited while Drummer unhitched the cart. I