21. Moving on...

After much soul-searching, Lemon finally decided he'd lived in his bed-sit above the Pink Pagoda Take-Away for long enough. Wandering along the High Street one day early in the year, he happened to glance in an estate agent's window and see something that hooked him in: a beach-front bungalow down on the Western Esplanade ' the quiet end of town. Nothing too big or fancy: kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, lounge, spare room ' and all of them in separate, self-contained spaces rather than lumped together in one. Old and characterful, too. Wind-bitten and in need of some love, but comfortable and detached. Just like Lemon himself.

He collared Yoyo, Sherlock and me one night in the pub and asked if we'd help him with the move.

"I've only got a few bits 'cos the bedsit was furnished when I moved in. So I'll need help with a load of new stuff, too. Cash in hand, lads.

We were all up for it. None of us had too much going on anyway. One of the things about being a freelance is the flat periods. With me lately, that was most of the time. I'd sell my body if I could. 60s model. One careless owner. High mileage. Taxed. Coughs on starting. Steering erratic. Dodgy head gasket. Smelly exhaust. Worn gearstick. Spare tyre. Thirsty. Bodywork needs attention. Needs a good patch-up and a service. Any offers¦

One for Mole, perhaps.

Sherlock took a mouthful of beer and grinned at Lemon.

"Not been tempted to buy a mansion then, mate? Swimming pool? Tennis courts? All that playboy codswallop?

Lemon chuckled into his pint.

"I like what I can feel comfortable with.

"I'll drink to that, I said.

We drained our glasses and Lemon waved to Denise for a fresh round.

Anyway, lads, he said, his eyes twinkling with the lights from the bar. "You just wait 'til you see it.

*

It's not a bad little community along the Western Esplanade. A dozen or so small houses of varying shape and size, tucked up the tail-end of the beach, with just a narrow stone causeway separating them from the edge of the shingle. From there, it's a fifty-yard crunch down to a high-tide toe-dip. They back onto a slope, and each of them is raised about six feet above path level in case of flooding ' their front porches reached by short flights of wooden steps. They're all a bit ramshackle, but there's chararacter about them ' their front walls and yards and under-porch spaces cluttered with the paraphernalia of life lived with the sea literally on the doorstep: rusting anchors, oars, chain winches, buoys, surf-boards, life belts, a dinghy or two.

Lemon's one was at the far end of the row, near where Lantern Jetty poked into the sea. Between the two: the sailing club, the coast guard lookout, a few beach huts. About as quiet as you can get around here, except for the mewling of gulls and the ringing of halyards against alloy masts.

I could see why he chose it. I could fall in love with it myself. A plain, simple little chalet bungalow: four-square, broad roof, big windows, weather-boarded walls ' quaint and cosy as a mountain cabin. The steps led up to the 'beach room' ' a verandah running along the front, glassed in and roofed like a conservatory, with an area almost as big as the whole of Lemon's previous living space put together. Fishing nets draped across the ceiling, with ornamental coloured-glass floats nestling in their folds. The bare-boarded floor creaked like the timbers of a galleon. A hammock was strung across one corner. I could see Lemon lying there on summer nights, like an old sea dog in his cabin ' Tilly lamp aglow, nightcap in hand ' watching the sun go down, feeling about as content as any man like him deserves to feel.

"What about that, lads, he said, looking out at the gunmetal sea. "I may even get meself a little boat, you know. One of them cruiser tubs. Get out there on the ocean. See what's happening and where it all goes. I've lived next to it all these years and never even stepped foot on a Pedalo.

The previous owner had been a seafarer himself ' as the air in the rooms testified: a tangy mixture of dried seaweed, old wood, tobacco smoke and some kind of strong alcohol (a preservative, maybe?). There wasn't a scrap of wallpaper anywhere ' just bare plain plaster walls with a dado of bleached wood panelling. The lounge was fitted out snug as a pub with window seats, glass-globed wall lights, and a huge stone fireplace, like an outcrop of rock, with a tide-worn oak beam for a mantel ' probably a washed-up spar from some ancient wreck. A name and date, shallowed and burnished with age, was carved into it at one end in neat Old English script: J. Pennysilver ' Plymouth 1874.

"Thereby hangs a tale, Sherlock said, fingering the letters like Braille.

"I was born in Plymouth, said Lemon. "All my folks came from there. Be funny if someone from way back knew him.

Yoyo knelt down in the hearth and looked up the chimney.

"Can't see any sky. Looks like a fuckin' ostrich nest up there or something. I'll come and give it a sweep for you sometime.

The main bedroom had windows on two sides, looking out over the sea and the jetty. Out the back, through the bright galley kitchen, a stretch of garden sloped upwards in rough terraces. At the top end, a home-made shed ' built to resemble an old rum-tub, with portholes, a deck and gunwales ' rested at anchor on a rollicking tide of harebells, mouse-ear and dog's grass. A tin chimney looped up the side of the cabin. A huge ginger cat lay on the roof, blinking in the sunlight, satisfied as you like.

"Ah, now¦ there's cosy, said Sherlock. "Who needs a bloody mansion, anyway?

"Right, said Lemon, a grin as big as the cat's spreading across his face. "This'll do.

It didn't take long to get his stuff in. One vanload did it. A table, a chair, a fridge, a telly, a kettle. A box of books and a box of crocks. A few bags of clothing and shoes. An old Dansette record player and a case of LPs ' mainly the classics: Rachmaninov, Debussy, Tchaikovsky, Bach. A standard lamp and a couple of prints: Hopper's Sunday, with its lone figure sitting on a boarded sidewalk, and Vincent's Bedroom at Arles ' pictures that say as much about Lemon as anyone needs to know.

"Not much for a life, he said, as we sat on the floor of the living room afterwards and looked at the stuff piled up in the middle. "Not when you think about it.

Sherlock took out his tin and started to roll a fag.

"I reckon it's enough though, mate, he said. "Depends on what you want.

Lemon grinned. "Yeah. There's a few other things I need, though. A bed. A sofa. Something to cook with. He stood up, ramming his hands deep into his pockets. "Time to do some serious shopping, I think. Where's the best place in town for furniture?

We caught Billy unawares, catching up with paperwork in his office on what had, 'til then, been a quiet day.

"You were lucky, he said. "Ten more minutes, I'd have taken an early lunch.

As it turned out, it was his best day for months ' thanks to one ex-hospital porter in a yellow jumper who was shifting up a few notches in life. He strolled through the place like a kid in a toyshop, tapping his hand on stuff as he passed, while Billy followed behind with a pad of 'Sold' labels. An oak dresser, a closet wardrobe, a bureau desk, a velvet recliner, a 3-piece cottage suite, a couple of bookcases, an upright piano and stool.

"Didn't know you played, said Sherlock.

"Thought I'd start, said Lemon.

Some rugs and vases, a mahogany sideboard, and a big oak table with half a dozen chairs. Tasteful stuff, too. Chosen with an eye. And the longer the list grew, the more I started to think of my back. This was solid kit. No flat-pack crap. All to go in the back of a van, then up a ricketty wooden stairway. Good job it was only a bungalow. Pity it was only Mole's work Transit ' long wheelbase or no.

The final tally was just over three grand, which Lemon settled from a wad of fifties. You could have played snooker with Billy's eyes.

"You've some lovely stuff here, Bill, said Lemon, gazing down the perspective of furniture stacks to the stage. "I'll come back for some more when I'm settled.

Billy smiled wanly as he tore off the bill of sale and handed it over.

"Don't leave it too long then, Lem, he said. "Catch it while you can. While I'm still around.

We just looked at him, waiting for the wink that betrayed the joke. But nothing. Just a sigh and a sniff, like someone had let the air out of him.

"Got the letter this morning, he said, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket and handing it to me. "Up for auction at the end of the month.

I opened the letter. The others read it over my shoulder. Included was the press advert. The usual guff.

UNIQUE PROPERTY
VICTORIAN MUSIC HALL THEATRE
CURRENTLY USED AS
RETAIL PREMISES
EXCELLENT DEVELOPMENT POTENTIAL
RESERVE: £350,000

"They're selling me out, lads, said Billy.