Sunshine Over Bluebell Cliff

by Della Galton

  Clara went further into the marquee where chocolate of every size, shape and description was on display. There were boxes, tins and bars of everything a chocolate lover could possibly desire. White chocolates, dark chocolates, milk chocolates, handmade truffles, liqueur chocolates, nut chocolate, chocolate fudge, biscuits. Oh God. There was so much temptation.

  Lots of the stalls had samples. Clara clenched her fists in the pockets of her light jacket, in order to resist. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. If she caved in, she could easily put on four pounds by lunchtime!

  At least two of the stalls were doing some kind of challenge, one was clearly running a competition: Guess the weight of the chocolate Santa. Blimey, they were early, but maybe not. There had been touches of Christmas in the shops since early September.

  At the far end of the marquee, Clara spotted a banner, which said Curly Wurly Stretching. Guinness World Records. Record Breaking Attempt. Here 11.30 a.m. There was a cardboard cut-out of a giant Curly Wurly on a stand, alongside what looked like a long trestle table covered in white plastic sheeting.

  So that’s where it would all happen then. Clara made her way over there.

  It was only just gone ten, but the marquee was beginning to fill up with people and a buzz of chatter filled the air. It might be October, but they’d been lucky with the weather. Winter still seemed a long way off.

  She hooked out her mobile phone and took a photo of the whole Curly Wurly table set-up. She had to back up a little way to get it all in and she had literally just turned round again when she bumped into Adam Greenwood.

  ‘Oh hi,’ she said, feeling a thrill of pleasure. ‘I didn’t realise you were a chocolate fan.’

  ‘Clara, hi.’ He looked startled to see her. Or perhaps she had caught him by surprise. ‘Isn’t everyone?’ A white plastic carrier bag swung from his left hand. ‘I thought I’d do some early Christmas shopping,’ he added.

  ‘Good idea. I should do that. I was just trying to resist the temptation of the samples.’

  ‘Why try?’ he asked, opening his carrier and showing her three boxes of truffles. ‘They’re not all presents. I can’t resist them.’

  ‘Me neither.’ They looked at each other and suddenly she felt that connection between them again and it was as though they were the only two people in the marquee – a couple, enveloped in a chocolate hug.

  A little flustered that she’d put Adam in the same sentence as a hug – she dragged her mind back to reality.

  ‘How’s Nick?’

  ‘How are things with your family?’

  They spoke together and he gestured for her to go first.

  ‘Nothing much has changed,’ she told him. ‘But I do know Grandad hasn’t actually mentioned divorce to Gran yet and I took your advice and I haven’t mentioned it to anyone either.’

  ‘That sounds promising.’ He was nodding. ‘Nick’s good too, thanks. He’s working again and so I’ve sneaked out for an hour. I’ve been doing more than my fair share lately, and I’d heard that the chocolate fair was in town.’

  ‘I’m here to support the Curly Wurly Stretching Guinness World Records attempt,’ she told him, glancing at her FunFit. ‘Although that’s not for another hour and a half yet. The challenger is staying at the Bluebell with his mother,’ she explained. ‘At the moment, they’re being interviewed by The Purbeck Gazette.’

  ‘I see.’ His face cleared. ‘Have you time for a coffee? Or a hot chocolate even?’ He gestured to a stand just behind them.

  ‘Why not. Yes. I’ve plenty of time.’

  A few minutes later, they were standing on the grass once more, outside the marquee and away from the heady scent of chocolate, which had been starting to become overpowering in its sweetness. Who knew!

  Clara followed Adam past the beer tent and saw that Micky and Shirley Tucker were at one of the plastic tables talking to a guy with a notepad. That must be Simon Tomlinson, although he had his back to her so she couldn’t be sure. All three of them had pints of cider in front of them. Its sharp distinctive scent carried on the air.

  They were starting early. Micky must be in need of Dutch courage, she thought, hoping that a pint of cider wouldn’t affect the steady hand he needed. No, of course it wouldn’t. It was well known that Somerset men were big cider drinkers.

  She and Adam sat at a table outside the beer tent, sipping the hot chocolates he’d bought them, and Clara tipped her head back, feeling the October sunshine on her face and noticing that all her senses seemed sharper than they had a few moments before. The colours were brighter. The grass seemed greener. The marquees with their taut guy ropes, looked whiter against the blue sky. The mingled scents of burger vans, coffee and cider were more pungent and the shrieks and laughter of children from the funfair shriller.

  They didn’t talk about anything consequential. It was very different from the intimacy of the last time they had met, but then so was the setting. They were in a very public place, with people milling about, kids squealing, the shouting of stallholders, the thrum of a diesel generator. Yet once again the time flew by and it wasn’t until Clara spotted Micky Turner actually walking past her, still chatting with the reporter, that she realised it was nearly eleven.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said to Adam, standing up. ‘Will you come and watch our record-breaking attempt?’

  ‘No, I should get back. I’ll be needed for Sunday lunch. But I hope it goes well. It’s been nice chatting.’

  ‘Ditto. And thanks.’ She watched him go and then hurried to catch up with Micky, who hadn’t got very far. Oddly, he seemed to be weaving around. In fact, the closer she got to him, the more concerned she became that something was wrong.

  Shirley was beside him and she turned as Clara caught them up.

  ‘Is Micky all right?’ Clara asked. Now she was close enough, she could see that he wasn’t. His eyes were slightly glazed and his face was flushed. ‘Is he drunk?’ she gasped.

  ‘No. He can’t be.’ Shirley was shaking her head in bemusement. ‘Micky can hold his drink. Besides, he only had a pint.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ her son confirmed. ‘Just got up a bit quick, thass all. No worreesh. May need a pee.’

  20

  As Clara waited with Shirley outside the Chocolate Challenge marquee for Micky to reappear, she could feel the anxiety rising.

  This was not alleviated by the sight of him heading back towards them across the grass with the reporter she’d seen him with earlier holding on firmly to his arm.

  ‘Good morning, Miss King,’ Simon Tomlinson said. He hadn’t changed much. The same ferret face and mean little eyes. He’d been the one she had promised to sue if he dared to print anything about Arnold’s botched proposal. The one who’d complained about the gagging of free speech.

  Oh great, that was all they needed.

  Ignoring him, she looked at Micky, who, if anything, looked even worse. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m good.’ He looked at his watch, tried hard to focus and gave up. ‘What time is it? Are we on?’

  ‘We’re on in fifteen minutes,’ Shirley told him. She had gone a bit pale, or it could have been the reflection of the white marquee behind her.

  ‘Maybe a coffee would help?’ Clara said, even though she knew it was pointless. There wasn’t time to queue up for one and, anyway, Micky looked as though he might be past the stage where caffeine could help.

  To give him his due, he seemed to suddenly make a supreme effort. ‘Right then – let’s get cracking. Curly Wurly Curly.’ He beamed around at everyone. ‘Bring it on.’

  ‘Great stuff, mate,’ the reporter said. ‘Let’s get you to the starting line.’

  A few minutes later, they were at the table. Earlier on, Shirley told Clara, they had spoken to the sponsor of the stall, a confectionary seller called Wesley from Weymouth, and they’d also spoken to the adjudicator from Guinness World Records about the rules. So they were all set.

  Micky seemed to have recov
ered enough to speak without slurring, but Clara saw Wesley and the adjudicator exchange glances when he arrived.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Shirley was busy reassuring them. ‘He’s just hamming it up. His idea of a little joke. He’s only had one pint.’

  They were both nodding, smiling, as though they expected nothing less from this dumpling of a man who must have had a misspent youth working out the best way to stretch chocolate-covered toffee.

  ‘Keep it together, son,’ Shirley hissed at him as he took his place at the foot of the table with her by his side.

  The adjudicator announced the event to the small crowd who had gathered, heads bobbing like curious meerkats.

  ‘The Curly Wurly has been fully inspected,’ he continued, ‘and I am satisfied it meets the required parameters.’ He indicated with his GWR clipboard towards the chocolate bar that lay on the table. ‘Give him some space,’ he told the crowd, as he brandished the stopwatch.

  Micky, who gave a small burp as he bent over the table said, ‘Thank you,’ as the countdown began.

  Clara held her breath as the attempt got underway. Maybe, after all, it was going to be OK. Micky had changed from being a bumbling drunk person to having fingers that worked with speed and dexterity. Totally focused on his task, he bent over the table, pulling and stretching, working and wheedling the toffee into the thinnest of lines. It was quite incredible to watch. A couple of people egged him on. ‘Go Micky.’

  The reporter was videoing it. Clara sent up a silent prayer to the patron saint of chocolate: if there was such a thing. Maybe she should be praying to the patron saint of lost causes. There was definitely one of those.

  Be positive, Clara.

  ‘One minute gone,’ announced the adjudicator.

  Micky was still totally focused. The reporter was still videoing intently.

  Someone knocked against the table and the adjudicator admonished him. ‘Give him space.’

  ‘He’s smashing it,’ someone shouted.

  ‘He’s smashed.’ That was a woman’s voice, raucous, from the back of the crowd.

  ‘One and a half minutes.’

  ‘Rock on, son.’

  ‘Go for it, Micky,’ Clara yelled, caught up in the excitement.

  The chocolate aroma was heady, almost sickly, and it was hot in here now, amidst all these people. Micky’s face was flushed and he had sweat dripping off his forehead down into his eyes. She was amazed he could see anything, but he didn’t falter.

  ‘Two minutes.’

  The noise levels were rising. Clara wondered how many times Micky had done this and why he wanted to do it and she realised she had never asked him. It had seemed like such an insane idea, but was it really insane? Wanting to have your name in the record books. Even for something as crazy as this. Maybe that made it better, not worse.

  ‘Two and a half minutes,’ sang the adjudicator.

  Micky was still going hell for leather. Clara glanced at the reporter’s face behind the video camera and saw that he was scowling. How odd. Surely he wanted to see Micky succeed.

  She looked back at Micky. They must be almost there. This had been the longest three minutes of her life. And then suddenly he faltered and he seemed to stumble. He hadn’t finished. He shouldn’t be stopping. But then she realised why. Micky clapped his hand over his mouth. He was trying not to retch. Carla realised this at exactly the same moment that the adjudicator began the final countdown.

  ‘Five, four, three, two one. Stop.’

  Micky had already stopped. He was close to the end of the table and then suddenly he was throwing up. People who had crowded in to see the finale were now backing away in horror. Clara was aware of their faces, screwing up with revulsion, as they tried to avoid being puked on.

  She was aware of Shirley leaping to his aid, the only person in the enclosed space who was going towards him and not trying to get away.

  Oh God, no. This was turning into a nightmare.

  Clara hadn’t thought it could get any worse, but it had. Once the initial chaos of Micky throwing up and the adjudicator declaring that the record attempt to be null and void as Micky had stopped before completion, the recriminations had begun.

  At first, it had seemed the adjudicator might give Micky another chance. Apparently you were allowed to have three goes at breaking a record, but Micky was clearly too drunk to try again. Spraying vomit everywhere hadn’t helped his case at all.

  After a lot of staggering about and cursing from Micky, and some muttering about contestants needing to be in a fit and sober state of mind in order to participate from the adjudicator, it was decided to call it a day. The record attempt was abandoned.

  Both Shirley and Micky had blamed the whole thing on him having been given a dodgy pint of cider and there had then been a furious argument between them and one of the barmen in the beer tent.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with our cider,’ the barman insisted. ‘He can’t take his drink. That’s obviously the problem.’

  ‘I only had one pint.’ Walking about in the fresh air had clearly perked him up.

  ‘So you say. How do I know you weren’t knocking it back before you got here? You must have been glugging it from the barrel to get that flaming bladdered.’

  ‘I most certainly was not. Your cider must be off.’

  ‘Our cider is NOT off. You had one yourself.’ The barman had glared at Shirley. ‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’

  Neither of them had disputed this. They couldn’t.

  Clara had looked from one to the other of them uncertainly and then she had voiced the only other explanation she could think of. ‘Could anyone possibly have spiked your drink?’

  ‘We weren’t with anyone else,’ Shirley said. ‘Except for that reporter. He couldn’t have done it, could he?’ She had nudged Micky sharply in the ribs. ‘What about when I went off to the loo. Could he have done it then?’

  ‘Could he heck! Why would he?’ Micky’s face screwed up fleetingly at a memory. ‘Although it maybe did taste a little bit odd. Strong like – it put me in mind of Uncle Bert’s scrumpy. It seemed to get stronger as I got through it.’

  The reporter had vanished, Clara noticed, looking around. No doubt he’d headed back to his paper in disgust, having not got a decent headline. She nodded at Micky and addressed her next question directly to the barman. ‘I know this is a long shot, but no one bought a few shots of vodka did they, from your bar this morning?’

  ‘It’d take more than a few shots to get me that drunk,’ Micky said, with a hint of pride in his voice. ‘I can do vodka.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the barman said. ‘I’ll check with the other lads.’

  He came back shaking his head firmly.

  ‘No one sold any vodka first thing. Not even a shot.’ With one last decisive nod and a look that said he was taking no responsibility whatsoever for Micky’s state of inebriation, he headed back to serve.

  It was at this point that Micky had looked Clara straight in the eyes and said, ‘The only other thing I’ve drunk today was your whisky at breakfast. How strong’s that?’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ Shirley chipped in, looking at Clara suspiciously. ‘Whisky can be very strong.’

  ‘I’m not used to whisky,’ Micky said, nodding. ‘Might be that. Or it could be food poisoning. It could be something I ate, either this morning or last night.’

  Now, mother and son were standing closer together, a united front, and they were both looking at her accusingly.

  ‘Food poisoning doesn’t make you drunk,’ Clara pointed out, feeling suddenly as though the ground had shifted beneath her feet.

  ‘It makes you vomit though. I’ve never vomited anything like that before, have I, Mother. I feel fine now. Maybe whatever caused it has gone through me - like. Now I’ve vomited. Maybe that’s what happened.’

  ‘Maybe it’s your fault that Micky was sick and ruined his chances of breaking a world record,’ Shirley said.

  Clara cou
ldn’t believe how swiftly they had turned on her and hauled her into the firing line. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she defended herself. ‘You were clearly drunk. You were staggering around before you even went into the marquee.’

  ‘I was light-headed.’

  ‘He was light-headed,’ Shirley affirmed. ‘I could see ’e was light-headed.’

  ‘I think it might be best if we got you both back to the hotel,’ Clara said, swallowing down her anxiety. She could not afford a major dispute about the Bluebell’s liability in the middle of a public place.

  She managed to calm them down enough to get them to agree. For one thing, Micky needed to get a change of clothes. Although he had mostly avoided throwing up over himself, there was the odd damp splatter on his red top. He didn’t smell too good either, she thought, as they got back into the hot confines of Phil’s car and she opened all the windows. The one saving grace was that – as he’d said – he didn’t look as though he was going to throw up again. The sickly green colour had gone. He seemed OK. Maybe she could still salvage the situation. Maybe once they had talked things through sensibly they would decide that the Bluebell had nothing to do with what had happened today.

  She had virtually convinced herself of this, but then, just as they drew back into the car park, she heard Shirley say something that shot a cold chill straight into her heart.

  ‘I should think we’ve got quite a good case for compensation.’

  It took the rest of Sunday and Clara’s offer to give the Tuckers a hefty discount on their bill to elicit a promise from them that they would not be taking it any further.

  ‘I say, let them try,’ Mr B had retorted, pacing around his kitchen last thing on Sunday evening with a murderous look in his eyes. ‘How dare they suggest there is anything wrong with my food? This kitchen is as spotless as the Royal Family’s operating theatre.’

  At her request, he had shown Clara and Phil the size of the measure he had used for the whisky that had gone on Micky’s porridge.