THIRTY-FOUR
Jack waddled in the deepening snow, following the marine, a police helicopter pilot and two feisty women. Martin, on his three and a half legs, kept Jack company in his own waddling manner. ‘What’s the time,’ Jack called out, looking at his bare wrist.
‘Time you got a watch, it’s nine,’ Della called back.
Jack checked, shook his wrist, his hair past a pimple was slow. ‘Probably needs winding,’ he muttered. Martin didn’t laugh, he’d heard them all before.
They were met at the cottage door by Chas, who stepped out of the way so Amlodd could shake Jack’s hand. ‘Jack, is this it?’
Daphne stood beside Amlodd. ‘Come ‘ere, Daf,’ Jack said, arms out.
‘Not on your Nellie,’ Daphne replied, ‘you're rancid.’ The game was up on the trouser deposit.
‘I’ve gotta give those back to the
