Rob shone what he hoped was his cheekiest smile. “There might even be fireworks before the night’s through, Captain.”
“You are the village hero.” Ollie innocently popped the tip of his finger between his lips as he finished eating. “The only question is, do I change for our drink tonight or keep the joddies on?”
Rob ran his hand through his short, neat hair. So Ollie had noticed the direction of Rob’s glance. It’s not as if he could’ve missed it. His voice huskier than he had intended, Rob replied, “I think you should leave them on. For our drink, at least.”
Should he be flirting so outrageously like this with a man he’d only just met—even if he had seen him riding about the lanes, that tempting, firm bottom rising up and down in the saddle? If this all went arse over tit, Rob would be trapped in a village with a gorgeous but failed one-night stand.
“I’ll leave them on for the drink,” Ollie promised, his dark eyes sparkling. “And we can see where we go from there.”
Hot need shot to Rob’s groin and he tried to shift in his chair to disguise it. He wanted Ollie with a desire he hadn’t known for a long time. How tempting to pull him into his arms now and kiss him, and feel that magnificent arse under his hands. How he’d love to make Ollie grip the headboard of the bed and—
“Is that the time?” Rob pushed up his sleeve and looked at his watch. “Sorry, Ollie, I’ve got to go. But I’ll see you back here later. Nine? Nine-thirty-ish?”
“I’ll be here by half past,” Ollie told him. “Boots polished for the occasion, Officer—or whatever I should call a fireman when I’m not making jokes about poles.”
“Station Manager Monteagle.” Rob clasped Ollie’s hand and drew close enough to whisper, “Just so you know, when you’re riding, your backside is…perfect.”
“When you were climbing that tree in those jeans,” Ollie whispered in reply, “I forgot what day it was.”
Rob didn’t move away. Whatever cologne Ollie was wearing, Rob was determined to memorize it so he could think of it while he stood about in the cold and dark, shaking a bucket for pennies.
“Half-nine, then.” Rob let his lips just brush against Ollie’s skin as he let go of his hand. Did Ollie tremble, or was it Rob?
Perhaps it was both of them.
“See you then.” Ollie winked one mischievous eye. “Sonny Jim.”
Rob laughed. As he left, more reluctantly than he wanted to admit, he waved Ollie goodbye.
* * * *
The fire station wasn’t far from the pub, and Rob changed into his uniform with the rest of his crew. They drove through the village in the fire engine, out to Mr. Tresham’s big house. Their arrival drew a fascinated crowd, who previously had been busy at the hot dog stand.
“Thank God there’s no hen parties!” Rob joked as he waved from his cab at the faces of the excited children. When he had thought about the big house, as the crew referred to it, he had been expecting something sizeable, rather grand and perhaps a little bit shambolic, suitable for the old boy with whom he had been exchanging ever more loaded emails. What he hadn’t expected was the sort of place that you usually had to pay an entrance fee to get inside but as they wound their way up the driveway of the house, he realized now that big house was something of an understatement.
Villagers strolled alongside the vehicle toward the sprawling home that looked as though it had been painted onto the landscape by Hogarth, a few of its windows lit. The lawns, however, were bright with illumination and on the top of the hill to the right of the house, he could see the bonfire. It was a vast, towering thing, still unlit, and atop it sat Guy Fawkes who was, for reasons best known to Wing Commander Tresham, draped in the flag of the EU.
He’s a character, Rob reminded himself.
“Ah, that’s an old favorite.” One of his colleagues laughed. “You can never guess what it’s going to be. We’ve had Maggie Thatcher, Tony Blair, even Des Lynam on top of Mr. T’s bonfire over the years!”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t swapped it over for a station manager with a risk assessment on a clipboard!” Unless that’s what it is? Rob bit his lip.
“He tried that last year,” his friend replied. “And we suddenly realized that we couldn’t grant him his permits after all. Magically the Guy changed and the permit situation was rectified too. There’s no harm in him and his wife’s a sweetheart, but every village has a Mr. Tresham!”
“Bally this, bally that—Sonny Jim!” Rob climbed down from the engine and was immediately surrounded by children. The rest of his crew retrieved spare helmets for the children to try on, and buckets for the collection. As the blue lights occasionally swung round and painted the gardens azure, the Longley Magna fire officers did a roaring trade, posing for selfies and collecting more than a few pennies for charity.
“You there!” Rob knew the voice before he saw the man whom it belonged to, because only Mr. Tresham would have such a bray. It was tobacco and Chesterfield sofas, tweed and brandy. “Mountjoy, is it?”
“Station Manager Monteagle.” Rob turned slowly to face the man of a thousand grumpy emails. “Mr. Tresham, I presume?”
Mr. Tresham in tweed and a waxed jacket that somehow looked a little less dashing than Ollie’s had. He wore a flat cap and brandished a cane as though herding sheep rather than addressing a firefighter.
“Mr. Tresham is right.” He thrust out his hand to Rob. “I’m told I’m not allowed to use a spot of petrol to get things off with a bang. Is that right? How much would a fellow have to toss into your bucket to get his petrol can back, eh? One of your men has locked the bally thing away!”
What is wrong with some people?
Rob tried valiantly not to roll his eyes. He stood firm. “Sir, with respect—we have rules for a reason. In the past, some people thought there was nothing wrong with using petrol to kick things off, and there were horrific accidents as a result. So no. No petrol, and no amount of bribery, either.” Rob smiled at the children. “Hear that, kids? On no account use petrol to get a bonfire going. It’s very, very dangerous.”
“Seen the Guy?” Tresham gestured with the cane. “Looks rather like the chair of the parish council, wouldn’t you say? Give you three guesses what he’s holding in his sweaty little mitt!”
“Looks like the EU flag to me.” If he starts going on about Health and Safety gone mad, I swear I—
“He’s wearing the flag, he’s holding a bally risk assessment!” Tresham flicked his head back to peer at Rob. “Now, why would he be wearing an EU flag, Sonny Jim? What’s your best guess?”
“He has a holiday home in France?”
“No!” He smiled, a smile of triumph. “It’s because I’m married to the finest bloody Italian export this fair old isle’s ever seen, and it’s a bloody disgrace all this business, a bloody disgrace! Now let’s get this fire lit, shall we? Will you do the honors, as our newest Magnan?”
Once Rob had stopped staring in open-mouthed surprise at Mr. Tresham, he nodded. “Yes, I’d be more than happy to. Lead on.”
“Little donation of my own.” Tresham dropped a folded check into the bucket then strode away. “Come along now, don’t dawdle!”
Rob tucked his helmet under his arm and tugged open the neck of his jacket. He smiled as he followed Mr. Tresham, waving to the gathered locals. Would he ever fit in? He had to try.
The crowd were lit only by the occasional torch and the sudden glare of sparklers. There was a connection with the ancient when seeing people gathered at night in the dark, without the benefit of electric light. For how many centuries had people done this—in this very spot, perhaps—welcoming in the long, dark nights of winter with bonfires? And eventually, celebrating the failure of a band of men who had tried to blow up the House of Lords.
Rob gestured toward the bonfire. “It’s an impressive stack you’ve got there. Checked it for hedgehogs, I hope?”
“The most important task of all.” Tresham nodded. “All done and checked!”
Rob
patted him on the shoulder. Maybe the cantankerous old git wasn’t too bad after all. “Ready when you are, Mr. T.”
“Wing Commander,” the flat-capped gentleman reminded him as one of the firefighters handed Rob a flaming torch. Then he told the audience, “I declare our annual bonfire officially aflame. God bless her and all who bake a potato in her!”
Rob touched the torch to the straw and paper inside the bonfire and the flames grew into life. He made a lap, ensuring the bonfire would burn evenly, and passed his eye over the makeshift barricade that would keep the locals at a safe distance. The orange firelight reflected on the crowd, casting dancing shadows across their faces as if they were still wearing Hallowe’en masks.
He threw the nearly burnt-out torch into the flames, then came back to Mr. Tresham and shook his hand. “Here’s to a fantastic evening.” And an even more fantastic night, hopefully.
Then it was back to the collection and the smiling faces, to thoughts of Ollie in his jodhpurs and boots. Gold medal, Olympic showjumping captain Ollie, with bright eyes and dark hair, full lips and dashing good looks.
What a night it might be.
Mr.—Wing Commander—Tresham disappeared into the happy crowd and Rob was lost once more in the attentions of happy children and flirtatious women, reminded all over again of the seemingly universal appeal of a man in his business. The fire would burn for an hour or so before the fireworks were due to begin and this, his colleagues had warned him, was when Mr. Tresham was most likely to go rogue.
‘He likes lighting the touchpaper in every sense of the word,’ one of his new workmates had cautioned. ‘Watch him or he’ll be there with a box of matches and an oven glove.’
Rob tried to spot him in the crowd, but the darkness and the confusion of the flickering shadows made it a harder task than it should have been. Was that Tresham at the hot dog stand? Was he over there by the St. John Ambulance tent? Or had he thrust his hand into the bran tub? The bloody man seemed to be everywhere.
And nowhere, because with a shift in the firelight, or a flash of a torch, Rob saw each figure full in the face and realized that none of them were Mr. Tresham at all.
With the wing commander seemingly one more man in a flat cap amid an ocean of them, Rob instead kept one eye on the place where the fireworks were gathered. They were to be launched by members of his crew and only members of his crew, yet he had an idea that such an arrangement probably didn’t really mean much to their host. But just as he was beginning to wonder if he was simply being paranoid, he spotted a plump figure striding toward the boxes like Mr. Toad himself, walking cane striking the grass ahead of him.
From somewhere near Rob a loud peal of laughter sounded that he thought he recognized but he couldn’t think about that, because the man in the flat cap was now at the fireworks. With a quick glance back, like a child about to steal a swig of his dad’s beer, Mr. Tresham opened one of the boxes and took out a formidable-looking rocket. Only then did Rob see the cigarette lighter he was holding flare into life.
“Pa, what’re you up to?” a voice called and Mr. Tresham looked up sharply, letting go of the clandestine firework as the fuse ignited.
Rob started to run, despite the bulk of his uniform and the wet grass under his boots. He could hear the rocket fizz, see the sparks flying from it and, in the darkness, a figure who was only a shadow. He flung himself at them and the rocket passed so close that Rob smelled it and felt its heat shoot past his cheek. Then he was on the ground, his uniform protectively shielding the person on the floor, his arms wrapped tight around them as they panted in his ear.
“You okay, mate?”
“I think so,” was the breathless reply from beneath him. “What just happened?”
“You nearly—” Rob lifted his head and realized he was looking down at Ollie. “Shit! Ollie, I had no idea it was you. I saw that rocket about to zoom off sideways, saw someone in its path, and— I haven’t squashed you, have I?”
Rob began to get back up to his feet. Something in the back of his mind was bothering him. What had Ollie said, just before the rocket went off?
“I swear to God…” Ollie’s mouth set in a tight line before he relaxed into a smile and held out his fingers to Rob to signal he needed a hand up. A crowd had gathered to see disaster averted and once again Rob found himself cheered on as a hero, this time for preventing the maiming of—
Did he say ‘Pa’?
Rob held his hand out to Ollie. Brilliant, he had not only flung Ollie to the ground and pinned him down, but insulted his father too. Lowering his voice, Rob said, “I believe I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t.” Ollie slapped his hand to Rob’s arm but his face retained the look of annoyance. “Thank you. I’ll catch you in a bit.”
He managed a smile then strode away into the crowd, leaving Rob to the mercy of his newly minted fans.
“But—” There was nothing Rob could say. A crowd had descended, demanding selfies and a go wearing his helmet. He had discovered something worse than a failed one-night stand—one that never actually happened because Rob had insulted Ollie’s father. All he could do was smile—a fixed, cheerless beam that made his face ache.
The night wore on and Mr. Tresham remained, it seemed, on his best behavior. Rob was glad that he was too busy dealing with the enthusiastic villagers to dwell too much on the disaster that had befallen him this evening but he knew that when he woke up alone tomorrow, Ollie Tresham would be the first thing on his mind.
And what did it mean for his new start here in Longley Magna, if he’d already upset the medal-winning golden boy and his dad? This was the sort of place where men of Wing Commander Tresham’s sort held a lot of sway and in one fell swoop Rob Monteagle had made an enemy of the whole family.
Would he even have a job on Monday morning?
Rob kept smiling, longing for the evening to be over. There was no point going to the pub. Why would Ollie bother? He’d head back to the cottage and check online to find out if there was much of a career in rescuing cats.
Only once the flamboyant firework display was finally over, the crowds’ oohs and aaahs dying along with the bonfire, did Mr. Tresham reappear. He looked ready for an argument, striding over the grass with the cane in his hand and a rather terse expression on his ruddy face. When he drew level with Rob he was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Now, look here, it rather seems as though I could’ve created a bit of an incident with my little prank earlier.” He looked down, his face falling too. “You saved the youngest from a rotten old fate, sonny, thank you. I’m not saying there’s something in this health and safety malarkey, but…well, perhaps it has its place, eh?”
“With respect, Mr. Tresham, you nearly blasted your own son’s head off with a rocket.” Rob sank his hands into his pockets with a sigh. “So yes, that’s why we have rules and guidance when dealing with explosives.”
“And that’s why I’m saying—” He took a deep breath and murmured, “Sorry, old man, no hard feelings, I hope?”
Rob shook his head. This time his smile was genuine. “Now you know how dangerous it can be—I hope you’ve learned an important lesson tonight.”
As have I. Never be rude about anyone in the village because you just might be insulting them in front of their own son.
“I’m too old for lessons, Sonny Jim, but one’s never too old to stop worrying about one’s young ’uns.” He smiled and squared his shoulders. “I shall bid you goodnight. I think you lads can probably be relieved of your duties for this evening!”
“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.” Rob headed back to the fire engine, and only just managed to suppress a sigh.
* * * *
On his way home, Rob cast a dispirited glance toward the pub. There was no point going in, and he wasn’t sure he was in a socializing mood now, too bowed down by the embarrassment of his faux pas.
The creak of the cottage’s old wooden door was a welcome sound, and once Rob had poured himsel
f a drink, he slumped down in his armchair and kicked off his shoes.
Rob wondered if he should have gone to the pub, to apologize to Ollie at least. But surely he would’ve given up and gone home by now, if he’d even gone there in the first place. The silence outside was so different from Bonfire Night in the city, when fireworks would have been lighting up the sky well into the early hours. In Longley Magna, it seemed, once the display was done, it was well and truly over.
The minutes ticked by and Rob sipped his drink, glad if nothing else for the fact that there had been no bonfire disaster this evening. Across Britain his colleagues would be dealing with who knew what but in the South Downs, all was peaceful.
Or it was, until there was an insistent knock at the front door of the cottage.
Rob’s thoughts went first to an emergency. He was out of his seat as if a spring had been set inside the cushion. Just as the knock came again, Rob opened the door.
“What’s—” Rob didn’t know what to say when he realized who had been knocking. “Oh, Ollie. I hadn’t expected…”
“You stood me up.” Ollie was leaning with one shoulder on the doorframe. He quirked his eyebrow and lifted his hand, in which he held a bottle of wine. “Got a couple of glasses, hero?”
Rob stood aside so that Ollie could enter, though he didn’t understand why he had turned up at his door. “Hero? How can you even want to speak to me after what I said about your dad?”
“Pa?” Ollie wiped his riding boots on the mat. He looked at Rob and frowned, then laughed. “Pa’s a cantankerous old sod but we love him for it. If I’d realized he was the pain in the arse who’d been making life difficult for you, I would have told you that he’s a pussycat at heart. Did you think you’d upset me?”
“Well…yes.” Rob gestured toward the sitting room. “Take a seat, Ollie. I felt so embarrassed, that I’d said all that and I was talking about your own father!”
“If it makes you feel any better, he was calling you a bally paperwork-waving fascist from the bloody government at lunchtime.” Ollie laughed and unzipped his waxed jacket, revealing that same crisp shirt, those same jodhpurs. “When I left him tonight, he was telling Ma that you’re a bloody decent bloke, a good sort! If you’re going to live in Longley M., you’re soon going to learn that Wing Commander Tresham isn’t a man to be taken too seriously.”
The Captain's Flirty Fireworks Page 2
