A GOWER INTRIGUE

by

Richard F Jones

 

From Oxwich Point on the Gower peninsular you can survey a good stretch of the Bristol Channel. Sitting on one of it’s lofty pinnacles, during my after dinner walk, I spotted a small boat, about a quarter of a mile out, heading towards the shore. It was late in the evening. The westering sun was almost setting. Three men were aboard the boat.

When the boat got closer in one of the men dived into the water, wearing a wet suit, and began swimming to the shoreline. The boat kept circling out in the bay until he reached the beach. His tall figure cast a long shadow on the pristine sand. He waved to the boat, which then turned and headed back out into the channel. Attached to his arm was a holdall. Quickly he peeled off the wet suit. His firm chest glistened in the sunlight. From the bag he extracted a t-shirt and joggers, put them on and then stuffed the wet suit in the bag. He waved again to the boat, which was by then almost in the middle of the channel, and ran off towards the village with the bag over his shoulder. I watched while the boat chugged westward out of sight. The put-putting noise of it’s motor echoed over the sound of the rolling surf.

* * * * *

‘The police have been skulking around these last few nights,’ Colin the barman said. I had finished my walk and was quenching my thirst in the hotel bar.

‘Drink driving clampdown, I expect,’ I replied, savouring the last dregs of my pint.

‘Not so sure,’ Colin said. ‘Looks a bit more involved than that to me. They’re not the local bunch. They’re in unmarked cars. Something’s up I think. They’re looking for somebody I’d say.’

Alongside me, also on a bar stool, sat Rhys Jenkins. He used to be the teacher at the village school. Retired now, but he was still privy to all the local gossip; it’s daily conjecture prevented his brain completely seizing up. ‘Rumour has it the IRA are dropping people off along here,’ Rhys said.

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Colin responded while he refilled my pint. ‘Most of those at the caravan site are on benefit. Bloody holiday camp for scroungers if you ask me.’ He slopped my beer as he thumped it down on the bar. ‘Might as well have a few bloody dossers from Ireland here as well.’

I had only recently moved to that part of the South Wales coastline, but during my short time there I’d learnt to keep my mouth shut when local hobby horses were aired.

‘They should never have done away with National Service,’ Rhys bemoaned. ‘That would sort some of the bastards out.’ He banged his glass down on the bar. ‘Fill mine up while you’re at it Colin.’

At that time of year, when the tide was out, I used to make my way home from the hotel across the beach. It was a short cut and the ozone helped clear the alcoholic haze in my head. Near the track that led to my bungalow, a row of wooden bathing huts overlooked the bay. Most were in disrepair, but you could still hire one from the council for a modest rent.

That night it was very dark, there was no moon. The big oak trees behind the huts were in full leaf, making seeing anything difficult, but as I passed by I heard a door bang. Then a figure moved behind one the huts. A crackling of twigs redirected my eyes and I spotted something rustle through a gap in the hedge.

* * * * *

Next day, the dog and I were on our morning walk. Scavenging behind the huts was one of his favourite activities during the walk. That morning he was gone a long time.

‘Rupert.’ I called out when I reached the beach, but he didn’t appear. Angrily I stomped back towards the huts.

‘You’ll go on the lead tomorrow,’ I said when I saw his rear end protruding from underneath one of the disused huts. When I got close I could see he was trying to drag out a holdall that had been jammed under the raised floor.

‘Let go,’ I pleaded as we both tugged to prise it loose. Inside the bag was a damp, rolled up, wet suit. Rupert jumped up at me while I inspected it. ‘Get down you stupid dog,’ I berated. I put it back in the hold all, under the hut, and we continued with our walk.

On the way back home, curiosity got the better of me. When I leant on the hut door it squeaked open. Inside rotting floorboards and musty damp confirmed years of neglect. Timbers were nailed up over the windows, but with the door open I could see the remains of two tins; one of sardines, the other of peaches and a screwed up empty crisp packet. Lack of decay indicated recent use.

Sitting in my lounge afterwards, supping on a coffee, I watched a rainy squall head up the channel. Knowing its impending approach would delay my gardening I decided to fill in the time by catching up on my shopping. Driving to the supermarket I passed the Police house at Reynoldston. On the return journey, the germ of intrigue in my head, caused me to stop and call in.

‘The old beach hut’s you say,’ Constable Leycock said after I’d explained. He and I had collected money together for the RNLI on flag day. Originally from Brynmawr, life on the Gower was much more amenable for his family, he had mentioned.

‘That’s right,’ I replied. ‘And the man came ashore from a little boat on the other side of the point.’ I added then paused. ‘They say you’ve been looking for somebody?’

‘Who said that?’

I hesitated before replying. ‘Rhys Jenkins.’

Our eyes met. His eyebrows raised, just a little, but he made no comment and picked up a sheet of paper from his desk.

‘I’ll come and have a look this afternoon,’ he said while studying the paper. ‘I’ve got to go that way anyway.’

* * * * *

My shopping trip had given me a thirst. The squall had turned into a ‘Haar’, the local term for persistent drizzle, so I abandoned any ideas about gardening and detoured off to the hotel.

‘Have you heard the news?’ Colin asked when I walked in.

‘What’s that?’ I said.

‘The Post Office was broken into last night. Took the safe while the Evans’ slept.’

‘Never. Are they all right?’ I responded and slurped my first gulp of beer.

‘Yes, fortunately they never heard a thing. Slept through it all they say. The police found the safe on the common. Blown open with gelignite. Seven hundred quid gone though.’

‘How did they get in?’ I asked.

‘Sawed through the bars on the back window. Bloody good job they’re not light sleepers.’

‘You’re not safe in your own bed these days,’ I said between more slurping.

‘We never used to have to lock our doors around here, day or night.’ Colin said and began gesticulating with the bar towel in his hand. ‘Too many bloody wasters living here now. They’ve got nothing, so why should anybody else have anything. That’s their attitude.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said and quaffed again on my beer, but he wasn’t finished.

‘In the old days we’d have put the buggers in the stocks. There used to be a set in the square, where the seat is now.’ He pointed through the bar window. ‘If I had my way, I’d have them put back. Stone the bastards I would.’

* * * * *

In the afternoon Constable Leycock and I inspected the huts. The holdall was still jammed where I’d left it. Then we clambered to the point and I indicated where the man had come ashore.

‘I’ll have a word with the coastguard,’ Leycock said. The westerly wind was ruffling his grey hair. ‘Could have been somebody finishing a fishing trip early though.’

‘But why was the wet suit dumped under the chalet?’ I replied.

‘Don’t know.’ He shrugged. ‘Might not belong to the same person!’

‘With the trouble at the post office I wondered if there was a connection?’

‘Could be. I’ll take the holdall and the tins. There may be some fingerprints.’

That night, as I walked home from the hotel, an owl was hooting in one of the big oaks behind the beach huts. His haunting sound made me stop and listen. While I was standing still I noticed, through a crack in the woodwork of the hut I’d been in that morning, a pencil slim shaft of light.

Unfortunately in my anxiety to get a better look I stood on a twig. The crack echoed in the darkness, causing the owl to sreech and fly off. The light in the hut went out. Warily I crept round the back and tried my shoulder on the door. In the morning it had opened without any bother, but now it wouldn’t budge. Either the council had been to secure it, or it was jammed from the inside. I listened but there was no sound.

When I got home I phoned Leycock

‘I told the council they needed securing,’ he said. ‘Mind you I’d be surprised if they’ve seen to it that quickly.’

‘I’m sure I saw a light,’ I said. ‘Thought you should know with all the trouble about.’

‘One of us will take a look,’ he said with a sigh.

About an hour later Peter Willetts, the young constable, rang back.

‘Looks like there was somebody in that hut,’ he said. ‘The door was open when I got there and food packets were still on the floor. I’ve had a good look around but there’s nobody about.’

That night I locked all my windows and the dog slept in the hall.

* * * * *

Next evening I was on my own in the hotel snug. A compelling episode of Coronation Street had kept everybody else home. I was well into my second pint when a tall muscular stranger walked in.

‘How’s it going?’ Colin said to the man, who ordered a ginger beer shandy.

‘Oh not so good,’ the stranger replied. ‘Somebody’s pinched my wet suit.’

‘Never. I tell you it’s getting bloody worse round here,’ Colin said. ‘Nothing’s bloody safe nowadays.’

The stranger had the same build as the man on the beach. I needed a refill.

‘Have you been swimming ashore from a little boat off the point?’ I asked when I reached the bar.

‘Sometimes, if it’s high tide.’

‘He’s in training,’ Colin said knowingly. He loved to be the first with any gossip. ‘Channel swimmer,’ he added, while nodding smugly in the direction of the man.

‘Is that so,’ I said. ‘Did you leave your wet suit under one of the old beach huts?’ I asked the man.

‘I did,’ he replied, straightening his back, which made him look extremely tall. ‘I usually jog back to Port Eynon. My pals moor the boat there and we drive over later to collect the suit. Last night though we stayed in Port Eynon to eat. I was going to pick it up today.’

‘Bloody typical,’ Colin said. ‘He’s only doing the bloody swim for charity, for Christ’s sake. Cancer research isn’t it?’

‘Parkinson’s Disease actually,’ the man said.

‘Well there you are. Bloody typical of this place,’ Colin said and stomped off to serve someone in the bar.

When he was out of earshot I said to the man. ‘I think I know where your wet suit may be.’

* * * * *

‘Did he pick it up?’ I asked Leycock on the phone next morning.

‘He did indeed. Nice chap. Hoping to get down to Dover next month, if the weather’s right. Oh by the way, the tins of food were left by old Archie. I’ve warned him about trespassing. Trouble is, when it rains, the silly old bugger’s got nowhere else to go. He’d be pleased if I arrested him, then he’d have a dry bed for the night.’

Archie was the local tramp. In the summer he slept rough. In winter he dossed in the Salvation Army hostel and hated every minute.

‘Any news of the Post Office?’ I asked.

‘Yes, we caught them last night, breaking into Killay. A Swansea gang. Our boys have been trailing them for weeks.’

‘We can all sleep peacefully again, then,’ I said.

THE END