Normal For Norfolk

Prologue Popular Village Publican Found Bludgeoned to Death! —Front page headline from the Walsham Courier Thelonious T. Bear reached up to adjust his deerstalker hat against the Norfolk wind. It was kicking up something fierce, and he didn’t fancy losing his most favoured of fashion accessories, particularly when he’d only just bought the thing. He’d had a devil of a time finding one that fit properly, returning several before finally hitting on the right one—and he wasn’t about to go through that whole rigmarole again. Buying online had its advantages, but it also had its disadvantages. Each visit to the post office with yet another rewrapped parcel caused Thelonious’s gut to churn. Buying clothing and accessories online was all well and good, providing the item you ordered actually fit. When it didn’t, well…it was no wonder he’d ended up being burdened with so many unusable items, preferring to be out a few quid rather than endure the stares and sniggers of postal employees. The ones who worked at his local branch were particularly unpleasant, especially that Asian woman with the loud voice who always shouted at him as if he were hard of hearing. Thelonious’s hearing was perfectly fine, thank you very much, but it wouldn’t be fine for much longer if he had to keep visiting the post office. Maybe this Mrs. Singh or whatever her name was should see her GP about being fitted for a deaf aid. If Thelonious had to work alongside her, he’d be filing a complaint about his work conditions with the employment tribunal! Standing at the edge of the road alongside his Mini Cooper with the Union Jack painted on the roof, Thelonious stretched the kinks out of his neck and shoulders and stared up at the endless expanse of afternoon sky. It was as if he’d suddenly found himself perched at the edge of the world; the streaky ceiling of blue above was so close he could’ve reached up to touch it. The salt tang of the North Sea teased his nostrils and he breathed deeply, smelling fish and various creatures that lived on the bottom of the sea. Thelonious was hungry; starving, in fact. He’d been driving since morning, a journey that had been made longer due to the intrusive presence of speed cameras on the A roads and the narrow winding B roads, not to mention having to pull over several times to peruse his road atlas when the car’s SATNAV became confused and kept sending him round in circles. Frankly, Thelonious was confused himself. That was the thing about the countryside—it all looked the same after a while; he was certain he’d been travelling the same bit of road more than once. No matter, he wasn’t in any hurry. He’d finally arrived in Norfolk, where he planned to spend the next few weeks, if not months—just him and his trusty camera and the wide-open unpolluted Norfolk skies. Unlike many in his field, Thelonious was fortunate enough to be able to pay the bills without resorting to wedding photography or worse, taking “glamour” shots of overweight middle-aged housewives trying to squeeze themselves into sexy lingerie in an effort to put some spice back into their marriages. Not that he’d be hired for these gigs, considering his physical limitations, which was probably just as well. The fact that Thelonious could simply up and go as if life were an endless holiday was one of the things he felt eternally grateful for. Photojournalism jobs were not easy to come by. If he did a good job on his “real Norfolk” assignment, who knew where it might lead? He could end up travelling the world—and not having to pay a penny for the privilege! Thelonious allowed himself a moment to fantasise about all the exciting and exotic places he could go, documenting each location with a series of photographs that told a story in a way that words could never achieve. He’d been lucky that his unique photographic perspective had caught the attention of a few editors and, more recently, an American publisher of what the Yanks called “coffee table books.” And there was talk of more to come, featuring Thelonious behind the viewfinder, provided he could deliver the goods. Apparently this publisher was keen on locations that were slightly offbeat, particularly those that had been successful in maintaining a sense of character and authenticity while everything around them turned into one giant McDonald’s. Norfolk was reported to be one of these places, and he looked forward to experiencing a return to the England of the past. Thelonious congratulated himself on having avoided an assignment in a big city such as Paris or Rome or New York, which would have been a complete misery for someone of his size and stature to work in. Crowds, traffic, noise, being trodden on at every turn—no, that wasn’t the most conducive environment for his art, nor was it for living, which was why he’d decided to say good-bye to London and take his chances, letting the cards fall wherever. He could now look forward to peace and quiet, fresh country air, quaint village pubs, and plenty of local ale. He didn’t give a toss about the bright lights and the not-so-bright inhabitants of big urban centres. Thelonious had had enough of it, not to mention enough of the crime and grime that accompanied it. Who knows, if he liked Norfolk enough, he might decide to make it permanent. The city was no place for him. Being vertically challenged was difficult enough in the best of circumstances, and living in London was not the best of circumstances. He’d gone through hell as well as great expense getting his Mini Cooper properly outfitted so that he could drive it, because no way was he getting back on the public transport merry-go-round, no matter how much the green fanatics tried to burden you with guilt for driving a car. Why, the last time Thelonious had taken the tube he’d nearly been trampled to death! And don’t even talk about the bus. His right leg was still giving him gyp from when that huge Zimbabwean woman had sat on him. Had she not been so busy jabbering on her mobile phone, she might have seen him occupying the seat. But that was London for you: lots of jabber, nothing much to say. Norfolk. Now that was the real England. They didn’t even have a motorway. Lots of farms, lots of villages, lots of pubs, but no motorway. Perfection. It was time to get back on the road, so Thelonious began the arduous process of climbing back into the Mini, wishing for an easier way to get in and out of the vehicle than hoisting himself up and down via the special pulley contraption that had been fitted to the driver’s side. Settling himself behind the steering wheel, he reached up to readjust his deerstalker hat over his oversized ears, then punched the specially rigged button on the dashboard to start up the car. The little engine kicked into life, as did Charlie Parker in the CD player. Thelonious’s wide foot stretched out toward the raised accelerator pedal, which always felt too far away no matter how many times he kept having it readjusted. Grasping hold of the steering wheel, he manoeuvred the Mini back out onto the B road, heading toward his first port of call: the sleepy village of Little Acre.