south of Robert. Head over there and order a coffee. We’ll be right down.”
Freddy was sitting in the back corner of the restaurant, tucking into a custard tart, when MacNeice and Aziz arrived. Seeing Aziz, he sat up straight and wiped his lips with the napkin.
“What an old fool I am. My memory is as clear as a bell about what happened in the ’40s and ’50s.” His brow furled and the corners of his mouth tucked into the folds of his cheeks. “I don’t recall much more than I said on the phone, except she sounded Scandinavian.”
“How can you be certain of that?” Aziz asked.
He smiled at her. “Merchant seamen get to know accents. I think she was either Swedish or Norwegian. I’m sorry now that I never asked her.”
“Can you remember anything else about her—her demeanour or personality?” MacNeice asked.
“Well, she was very attractive, that much I do remember.” He busied himself with folding and refolding the napkin and seemed happy to hear Aziz say the tart looked so good she’d get one for herself. As soon as she left the table, he ate the rest of his and wiped his mouth and chin before laying the napkin neatly over the plate.
“Freddy, does the name Duguald mean anything to you?”
“Well, it’s Irish …” Freddy pondered.
Aziz returned with a tart, a knife and two napkins. “You’re going to share this with me, Mac. I know you haven’t eaten.” She cut the tart in two, put half in a napkin and pushed it toward him. Then she lifted her half and bit into it, eyes closing the better to savour the taste.
MacNeice turned back to Freddy. “So … Duguald?”
“Sure, there was a guy by that name at the Block and Tackle. A night clerk … well not much of a night clerk, missing most of the time … maybe drunk or asleep somewhere. I don’t know. He was a relative of Billy’s from the old country.”
Aziz set her tart down reluctantly, to take notes.
“So he had an accent?” MacNeice asked.
“It was thicker ’n molasses in January,” Freddy said. “And he talked so fast that no one but Billy could understand him.”
Aziz was eyeing the second half of the tart. MacNeice slid it toward her without comment.
“Duguald was friendly, though, always joking … had an eye for the waitresses, but I never saw anything happen. He was just looking and smiling at them like most of us do, but when an old man smiles at a girl, he’s just a harmless old man.”
“How old do you think Duguald was?”
“Oh, I’d say maybe mid-thirties. So he had more reason to look at the girls than I did.” Anticipating the next question, Freddy added, “And I never seen the girl from the yacht club at the bar either.”
“So where did Duguald go when he left the bar?”
“All I recall is Billy saying, ‘Duggie had to ship out’—I remember that, you see, because that means somethin’ to me—and I asked him somethin’ like, ‘Duguald’s a seaman then?’ ” He finished his coffee, leaving the question dangling for several seconds. “Billy says, ‘Oh, Duggie’s bin lots a things.’ ”
“Tall, short, heavy?”
“Solid. Yeah, I think that best describes him. You know, I never heard his last name or, for that matter, where he came from or where he was going. One day he’s there, next he’s gone. The place is like that eh, people comin’ and goin’ all the time. Except for the customers; we’re there for the beer or the Fish ’n’ chips. As regular as stars at night.”
“You’re a poet, Mr. Dewar,” said Aziz.
Freddy flushed and tapped his fingers on the table like he was playing the piano.
MacNeice offered him cab fare back to the bar, but Freddy said he preferred to walk, as the heavy rain had kept him inside the day before.
“For now, keep this conversation confidential, Freddy,” MacNeice said.
“Yes, sir. Loose lips sink ships.” He stood, shook their hands, pulled his coat on and waved goodbye to the young waitress.
MacNeice finished his
Freddy was sitting in the back corner of the restaurant, tucking into a custard tart, when MacNeice and Aziz arrived. Seeing Aziz, he sat up straight and wiped his lips with the napkin.
“What an old fool I am. My memory is as clear as a bell about what happened in the ’40s and ’50s.” His brow furled and the corners of his mouth tucked into the folds of his cheeks. “I don’t recall much more than I said on the phone, except she sounded Scandinavian.”
“How can you be certain of that?” Aziz asked.
He smiled at her. “Merchant seamen get to know accents. I think she was either Swedish or Norwegian. I’m sorry now that I never asked her.”
“Can you remember anything else about her—her demeanour or personality?” MacNeice asked.
“Well, she was very attractive, that much I do remember.” He busied himself with folding and refolding the napkin and seemed happy to hear Aziz say the tart looked so good she’d get one for herself. As soon as she left the table, he ate the rest of his and wiped his mouth and chin before laying the napkin neatly over the plate.
“Freddy, does the name Duguald mean anything to you?”
“Well, it’s Irish …” Freddy pondered.
Aziz returned with a tart, a knife and two napkins. “You’re going to share this with me, Mac. I know you haven’t eaten.” She cut the tart in two, put half in a napkin and pushed it toward him. Then she lifted her half and bit into it, eyes closing the better to savour the taste.
MacNeice turned back to Freddy. “So … Duguald?”
“Sure, there was a guy by that name at the Block and Tackle. A night clerk … well not much of a night clerk, missing most of the time … maybe drunk or asleep somewhere. I don’t know. He was a relative of Billy’s from the old country.”
Aziz set her tart down reluctantly, to take notes.
“So he had an accent?” MacNeice asked.
“It was thicker ’n molasses in January,” Freddy said. “And he talked so fast that no one but Billy could understand him.”
Aziz was eyeing the second half of the tart. MacNeice slid it toward her without comment.
“Duguald was friendly, though, always joking … had an eye for the waitresses, but I never saw anything happen. He was just looking and smiling at them like most of us do, but when an old man smiles at a girl, he’s just a harmless old man.”
“How old do you think Duguald was?”
“Oh, I’d say maybe mid-thirties. So he had more reason to look at the girls than I did.” Anticipating the next question, Freddy added, “And I never seen the girl from the yacht club at the bar either.”
“So where did Duguald go when he left the bar?”
“All I recall is Billy saying, ‘Duggie had to ship out’—I remember that, you see, because that means somethin’ to me—and I asked him somethin’ like, ‘Duguald’s a seaman then?’ ” He finished his coffee, leaving the question dangling for several seconds. “Billy says, ‘Oh, Duggie’s bin lots a things.’ ”
“Tall, short, heavy?”
“Solid. Yeah, I think that best describes him. You know, I never heard his last name or, for that matter, where he came from or where he was going. One day he’s there, next he’s gone. The place is like that eh, people comin’ and goin’ all the time. Except for the customers; we’re there for the beer or the Fish ’n’ chips. As regular as stars at night.”
“You’re a poet, Mr. Dewar,” said Aziz.
Freddy flushed and tapped his fingers on the table like he was playing the piano.
MacNeice offered him cab fare back to the bar, but Freddy said he preferred to walk, as the heavy rain had kept him inside the day before.
“For now, keep this conversation confidential, Freddy,” MacNeice said.
“Yes, sir. Loose lips sink ships.” He stood, shook their hands, pulled his coat on and waved goodbye to the young waitress.
MacNeice finished his
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