Longshot

My attic, once the retreat of the youngest of Aunty’s daughters, had a worn pink carpet and cream wallpaper sprigged with pink roses. The resident furniture of bed, chest of drawers, tiny wardrobe, two chairs and a table was overwhelmed by a veritable army of crates, boxes and suitcases containing my collected worldly possessions: clothes, books, household goods and sports equipment, all top quality and in good shape, acquired in carefree bygone affluence. Two pairs of expensive skis stood in their covers in a corner. Wildly extravagant cameras and lenses rested in dark foam beds. I kept in working order a windproof, sandproof, bugproof tent which self-erected in seconds and weighed only three pounds. I checked also climbing gear and a camcorder from time to time. A word processor with a laser printer, which I still used, was wrapped most of the time in sheeting. My helicopter pilot’s licence lay in a drawer, automatically expired now since I hadn’t flown for a year. A life on hold, I thought. A life suspended.

I thought occasionally that I could eat better if I sold something, but I’d never get back what I’d paid for the skis, for instance, and it seemed stupid to cannibalise things that had given me pleasure. They were mostly the tools of my past trade, anyway, and I might need them again. They were my safety net. The travel firm had said they would take me back once I’d got this foolishness out of my system.

If I’d known I was going to do what I was doing I would have planned and saved a lot more in advance, perhaps: but between the final irresistible impulse and its execution there had been only about six weeks. The vague intention had been around a lot longer; for most of my life.

Helium balloon...

The second half of the advance on Long Way Home wasn’t due until publication day, a whole long year ahead. My small weekly allotted parcels of money wouldn’t last that long, and I didn’t see how I could live on much less. My rent-in-advance would run out at the end of June. If, I thought, if I could finish this balloon lark by then and if it were accepted and if they paid the same advance as before, then maybe I’d just manage the full two years. Then if the books fell with a dull thud, I’d give up and go back to the easier rigours of the wild.

That night the air temperature over London plummeted still further, and in the morning Aunty’s house was frozen solid.

‘There’s no water,’ she said in distress when I went downstairs. ‘The central heating stopped and all the pipes have frozen. I’ve called the plumber. He says everyone’s in the same boat and just to switch everything off. He can’t do anything until it thaws, then he’ll come to fix any leaks.’ She looked at me helplessly. ‘I’m very sorry, dear, but I’m going to stay in a hotel until this is over. I’m ‘going to close the house. Can you find somewhere else for a week or two? Of course I’ll add the time on to your six months, you won’t lose by it, dear.’

Dismay was a small word for what I felt. I helped her close all the stopcocks I could find and made sure she had switched off her water heaters, and in return she let me use her telephone to look for another roof.

I got through to her nephew, who still worked for the travel firm.

‘Do you have any more aunts?’ I enquired.

‘Good God, what have you done with that one?’

I explained. ‘Could you lend me six feet of floor to unroll my bedding on?’

‘Why don’t you gladden the life of your parents on that Caribbean island?’

‘Small matter of the fare.’

‘You can come for a night or two if you’re desperate,’ he said. ‘But Wanda’s moved in with me, and you know how tiny the flat is.’

I also didn’t much like Wanda. I thanked him and said I would let him know, and racked my brains for somewhere else.

It was inevitable I should think of Tremayne Vickers.

I phoned Ronnie Curzon and put it to him straight ‘Can you sell me to that racehorse trainer?’

‘What?’

‘He was offering free board and lodging.’

‘Take me through it one step at a time.’

I took him through it and he was all against it.

‘Much better to get on with your new book.’

‘Mm,’ I said. ‘The higher a helium balloon rises the thinner the air is and the lower the pressure, so the helium balloon expands, and goes on rising and expanding until it bursts.’

‘What?’

‘It’s too cold to invent stories. Do you think I could do what Tremayne wants?’

‘You could probably do a workmanlike job.’

‘How long would it take?’

‘Don’t do it,’ he said.

‘Tell him I’m brilliant after all and can start at once.’

‘You’re mad.’

‘I might as well learn about racing. Why not? I might use it in a book. And I can ride. Tell him that.’

‘Impulse will kill you one of these days.’

I should have listened to him, but I didn’t.

I was never sure exactly what Ronnie said to Tremayne, but when I phoned again at noon he was mournfully triumphant.