Chapter 6: Quiz? Ego!

1700 hrs. Wednesday 3rd April 2019. 27 Castle Road

DAY 3

There came a tapping on my door.

“It’s Debbie, Josh. May I come in?”

“The door’s unlocked,” I said.

She entered looking a rather apprehensive. “Mum sent me up to apologise. She feels terrible that she has upset you and asks that you forgive her. She’s almost in tears downstairs.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m not upset, just surprised by what she said about Doctor Devereaux, and why she said it...”

“Mum was acting like a mother and warning you...”

“She’s too young to be my mother and I can look after myself!”

Debs laughed. “I’ll tell mum you think her too young to be your mother, it will make her day. But she is a mother, my mother. How old do you think she is; in fact how old do you think I am?”

I shook my head. “I might be daft but I’m not stupid enough to tell a female how old I think they might be.”

“Well, I’m twenty-four, going on twenty-five. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.” Actually I wouldn’t be 27 until October but was fed up by people remarking how young I was to be a sergeant when I said I was 26.

“Mum had me three months before her eighteenth birthday so she is old enough, just, to be your mother, though probably under the age of consent when made pregnant!”

I did a quick calculation. Molly must be forty- two years old although looked to be in her mid-thirties. “I would never have guessed you or your mother were that age, although I should have realised you would have had to be been twenty-one or two when you left Uni and must have served at least three years in the Royal Navy to be a lieutenant.”

“Three years last November, when I got promoted.” She beamed a smile at me. “Mum will be tickled pink that you believe her to be so much younger than she really is. I do hope you are telling the truth?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” I swiped a forefinger across my throat.

Debs grinned, then a more serious expression took its place.” Let’s get back to why I came up here. Mum upset you, surprised you, by telling you something about Micky Devereaux when she was at Uni. What did she say that got you so upset, I mean so surprised?”

“Your mother intimated Micky slept her way to her doctorate. Is that true?”

Debbie looked guilty. “Mum made more of what I said than I really meant and I’m probably to blame for that.” She sighed and down sat on the settee. “Micky stayed here most weekends during term-time and my mother thought she was wonderful. Mum was going one day about how well mannered, tidy, and thoughtful Michelle Devereaux was, in fact all the things I was not. Mum wasn’t getting at me but I took it the wrong way. I got upset and said something to the effect that Michelle Devereaux had the professors at Caius wrapped around her little finger and they would do anything for her, including giving her a doctorate.”

“You mentioned ‘the professors at keys’. What or where is ‘keys?”

“It is the familiar name of Gonville and Caius College, one of the colleges that make up Cambridge University, and the college Micky and I attended. It’s pronounced ‘keez’ but is spelt C, A, I, U, S.”

“So why isn’t Gonville the familiar name of the college?”

She grinned. “It is an example of the arcane and esoteric language used in Academia to confuse those who haven’t attended college. Like Magdalene and Magdalen colleges both being pronounced ‘mawdlin’.”

Seemed bloody stupid to me, but I know how the intelligentsia love to confuse us lesser mortals. “And you were doing your degree at this strangely named college with Michelle Devereaux?”

“We were not in the same year – she is at least three years older than me – nor on the same degree course. However, she would often sit in on lectures with me and take part in some of the practical electronic engineering work, the degree course I was taking. We became good friends.”

“So it’s not true that she screwed her way to a doctorate?”

“Of course not. Micky worked damned hard and had a tremendous work ethic. She never went out partying like some of the other postgraduates doing research at Caius.”

“What subject was she studying?”

“Her doctorate was something to do with artificial intelligence. Her BSc and MSc were in a branch of biology dealing with the brain and the human nervous system. Electronic implants and microbiology came into it, all way beyond me.”

“Well, there you have it,” I said. “Michelle Devereaux has a brilliant mind and did not need to give out favours to achieve her goal.”

“Micky is extremely intelligent, but she is not a genius, and she would be the first to agree with me,” Debbie said, ignoring the indignant look I gave her. “There were a score of people at Caius with us who were more intelligent than her, but she also had, has, a strong work ethic and a burning ambition to succeed. She had set her sights on working in Silicon Fen -- “ Debbie saw my blank look. “It is the name given to the business parks near Cambridge where state of the art firms researching such things as biotechnology, microprocessors and semiconductors are located. It is like Silicon Valley in the States. A firm specialising in artificial intelligence has a research laboratory at Silicon Fen, and working there was, and still is, her objective.” Debbie looked at me with what could be taken as pity on her face. “You have only just met Micky but I’ve known her for five years and believe me when I say that when she has an objective in mind nothing, and no one, deflects her.” I heard the unsaid warning about getting too close to Micky and promptly ignored it.

“What did you mean when you told your mother Michelle had the professors wrapped around her finger and they would give her anything, including a doctorate?”

Debbie flushed. “I was angry when mum seemed to be comparing me unfavourably to Micky. To show her that Micky wasn’t the goody- goody my mother thought her to be I repeated a rumour going the rounds at Caius.”

“And what was this rumour?” I asked, struggling to keep the anger from my voice.

Debbie sighed, and then fixed her eyes above my head before speaking. “Micky spent a great deal of time with a senior don who sat on the panel that vet a doctoral thesis. In fact, she and the don went to Brighton.one weekend. The rumour circulating around Caius was that their dirty weekend away was the don’s reward for his vote.”

“And did you believe the rumour, Debs?”

“She did disappear one weekend without saying where she was going or with whom, but I don’t believe Michelle would do such a thing, although I recognise she possess vaulting ambition.”

“Well, she is now a Senior Forensic Officer with the East Anglian Constabulary collecting DNA and dusting for fingerprints. Hardly the cutting edge of technology,” I said.

“It is only a part-time job as far as Micky is concerned; Josh. Her sights are set on a career in Silicon Fen, and making sure she gets one.”

“She seems fairly satisfied with her job at Thurston Hall.”

“Ask her, Josh. I don’t know the full facts but from what I know of her she’s aiming higher than the East Anglian Constabulary.”

Debbie got from the settee and moved to the door where she paused and turned to face me. “Please pop in and see mum before you go to the pub, Josh. It would mean a lot to her. She was heartsick when she realised she had upset you.”

I nodded and she smiled and left my room.

I got myself ready for the Quiz Night at the Goat and Compass, but even while shaving and showering I thought about Michelle Devereaux. I had it bad, and I cursed myself for being a pushover when it came to a female with a pretty face, and a pert pair of tits, and a husky voice, and a sexy swaying walk, and a sense of humour like mine. Then, when I was about to leave for the pub, I realised Michelle Devereaux was the first female I had met who ticked all those boxes.

I knocked on the adjoining door at the foot of the stairs.

“Come in Joshua, that door is always open to you.”

Molly was standing in the dining room and I entered the room and hugged her. “I’m sorry I stomped off in a huff, Molly. I was a bit thrown by what you said.”

She gave me a tremulous smile. “It was all my fault, I can’t keep my opinions to myself. Please for...”

I could see she had been crying so I kissed her on her cheek. “There is nothing to forgive. I know you were only looking out for me.” I was tempted to pat her deliciously rounded bum but managed to restrain myself. “I’ll see you in the morning,” and made my way to the front door.

“They do an excellent Mediterranean lasagne in the Goat,” Molly called after me. I raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“It’s rather quiet in here; I thought it would be full of pre-Quiz Night drinkers.” I was standing at the bar of the Goat and Compass with a pint of draught Murphy’s clasped in my fist.

“The quiz is held in the function room through the lounge bar, and it don’t start while seven-thirty,” the barman said. He glanced up at the clock behind him. “Six o’clock. They’ll be flocking in within the hour.”

I took a long pull of my drink then put the empty glass on the bar. “I’m told you do a good Mediterranean lasagne. Do I order here or in the lounge bar?”

“I’ll take your order. Chef will be pleased to have a recommendation. Who told you?”

“My landlady, Missus Miller.”

“Molly Miller! Well, that is good to know. Molly worked here some time back and I know she is a mega good cook. For her to say our grub is good is like having a Michelin star!” He went out the back and a few moments later returned. “Your meal will be ready in twenty minutes. Chef is extremely chuffed to have Molly Miller recommend his lasagne and sends her his best wishes – his name is Errol.”

I paid for the meal and another pint of Murphy’s and walked through to the lounge bar, found a corner seat and pondered on what I had just learned. So Molly was a cook, ‘a mega good’ cook. I knew she worked in the canteen at Thurston Hall but thought she was a server or on vegetable preparation. The sole meuniere I enjoyed yesterday must have been made by her, not bought ready-made from a supermarket. When I got back from the pub I would compliment her on her culinary skill. In fact I would buy her some flowers; yeah, the ladies love having flowers given them. For some reason I wanted to get into Molly’s good books. And her knickers, my inner devil suggested. Certainly not, my inner angel replied. I want to show my appreciation of her hospitality and make amends for the unpleasantness earlier. Bollocks! My inner devil retorted.

The lasagne was as good as Molly had said, and it was a healthy meal. Since arriving in Bury St Edmunds I had been feeding my face with good and plentiful food, sitting at a desk, being driven to work, and not visiting a gym. I went to the gym most days when living in London and did an hour of strenuous exercises. I needed to get back into my fitness regime else I would be as fat as butter and a cardiac arrest statistic waiting to happen. I recalled Bill Clark, or it might have been Red Owen, mentioning there was a gymnasium in the basement of Thurston Hall and I determined to use the facilities at the first opportunity, like tomorrow morning.

The lounge was beginning to fill up and I moved into the function room. There must have been another entrance to the room, as there was quite a crowd and they hadn’t come through the lounge.

A tall thin man with a long nose and a clipboard stood at the door. “What team are you with, mate?” He asked. I had no idea but fortunately Jim Barlow saw me and waved from the table he was sitting at.

“I’m with him,” I said pointing at Jim.

“Ah, the Sweeny,” the man with the clipboard said and ticked a box on the sheet of paper on his clipboard.

I walked over to Jim’s table. Sharon Douglas was also there looking rather tasty. On Monday night she had been in scruff order, wearing a bulky wool sweater and baggy jeans, but now she wore a dress that showed off her cleavage and legs. Both were quite spectacular. She was a large girl with big tits and sturdy thighs – ‘walnut crackers’ as they are known in the Met. I am not a tit-man per se, I’m more of a leg and bum man, but can still appreciate a well-filled brassiere, and Sharon’s was doing a fine job keeping everything in place. I leaned over to kiss her cheek but somehow our mouths meshed. It was the first time in nearly six months that I had the taste of a female tongue. Kushti!

“Jack will be here in a tick,” Jim said. I swiftly, if reluctantly, disengaged from Sharon. When with the group on Monday I got the impression Sharon was Jack Dodge’s squeeze.