What struck Julian were the silvered eyebrows half-way down an oblong face. Most people’s eyebrows are a third of the way down. This displacement, together with a high hairline, left a disconcertingly blank expanse of forehead skin, broken only by a stray wisp of hair escaping diagonally from an oiled and groomed coif to gently caress the outer arch of the right brow.
They had met in Drawing Class five years previously. A common love of philately and the search for the missing, presumed stolen, “Inverted Jennies.” -so named because the stamps’ bi-planes had been printed upside-down, -had propelled an initial halting comradeship into friendship, to them sharing a flat together, then more.
Shane was ostensibly the more extrovert. A favourite entertainment for both was him regaling Julian with colourful yarns of adventures with his “alternative” friends; the “Famous Five” he called them. Sometimes, without warning, “You go out and enjoy yourself. Come back any time after 10.30pm.” Shane would say in his appeasing voice, letting Julian know he had to be out that evening and what time he was permitted to return. Shane would shower, apply aftershave, don his grey and pink checked, 3 piece suit, and complete the “look” so carefully cultivated with a fedora. Julian guessed these evening assignations were with the “Famous Five”, either singly or in various combinations. Him meeting any was out of the question. Not permitted.
Following Shane’s decampment, Julian set himself a mission; perhaps going head to head would complete the puzzle that was Shane. Tanishka, the medical photographer, told of enormous rainbow-coloured cysts in embarrassing bodily locations; she had secreted Shane behind a conveniently placed screen during one session. Peter was a senior soloist in a renowned ballet company; he had persuaded the coach to allow Shane to attend rehearsals and “practise” at the bar with the Corps. Then there was Konrad, the reformed diamond thief who had served time at Her Majesty’s pleasure, Tony the high-wire artist who routinely walked blindfolded between international skyscrapers and Lord Mercius of Blackwater, knighted for services to sewer cleansing.
The marathon of meetings with “The Five” did little to demystify the enigma. Yes some familiar strands of Shane emerged from their stories, the languorous humour, the retreat into wordlessness when over-tired, an attraction to the more louche of theatrical productions, but the essential Shane, his daytime routine, what he did, where he went, remained as elusive as ever.
It arrived long after he had abandoned hope of a reappearance. Julian at breakfast had been looking down into an unacceptably brick-hard egg yolk. He liked half- boiled. Shane had always cooked their breakfast before disappearing weekdays at 10 am sharp. He recognised the hand-writing, and noting The Bermuda postmark carefully opened the package. No letter, just two kisses pencilled on the inside, closing flap. Within, a glassine envelope stiffened with cardboard the inverted wings and wheels of a biplane on its back was unmistakeably a “Jennie.”
