‘What kiiiiiiind of goddam hell is this?’ she bellows in a deep southern American accent when nobody arrives to deal with her.
‘Perhaps it’s some kind of protest? Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing,’ I say, sounding very proper and English, and why am I apologising? I scan the airport desperately searching for someone in authority to explain exactly what is going on.
‘You got that right! But for three days? It’s an abomination.’
‘What do you mean?’ I swallow hard, praying this isn’t what I think it is.
‘French air traffic control are the culprits – something to do with your European Union,’ the American woman states. Oh God. ‘Brought the whole country to a standstill. I just wanna know where the train station is so I can get the hell outta here.’
‘But I must get home, I have to, I have a regatta to sort out, this is a nightmare, I don’t know what to do, I can’t wait three days.’ I blabber like an idiot.
‘Me neither. Where are you heading?’
‘England. Anywhere there will do,’ I add, figuring if I can get to the same land mass, it’ll at least be better than being stuck here.
‘Then you’d better get the train to Paris with me. We can take the Eurostar from there to London,’ she offers.
‘Perfect. Let’s do it. Come on, Nancy will take us to a station, I’m sure of it. This is an emergency after all.’ And I grab one of her suitcases and start running back outside. The woman lunges for her other suitcase, does a spectacular U-turn with it and jogs alongside me, puffing.
‘I have no idea who Nancy is but, right now, I wanna marry her, have her goddam kids and devote the rest of my life to her …’
20
It’s Saturday morning when I eventually make it home. The journey consisted of a five-hour train journey from Toulouse to Paris, then the 07.13 Eurostar was the first one with available seats on – seems everyone stranded in France had the same idea; then I got a train from London to Mulberry-On-Sea. I’m shattered beyond belief and my iPhone packed up somewhere between Toulouse and Bordeaux as I didn’t even think to fully charge it before I said goodbye to Nancy, figuring I’d be home in just over an hour or so on the flight, but how wrong was I? Never again. And if I never leave this island again, then it won’t be too soon … so much for wanderlust and adventure, I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime. And there’s only so much French countryside one can admire from a train window with a loud woman called Patti in one ear belting on about the ‘European Union’ and how ‘this fiasco would never ever happen in America’. Although Patti was very sweet when we got to Paris, and lent me a pair of her ‘easy-fit pants’, as she called them – I had dumped the velour joggers before I left Andorra as they were making my thighs itch, and the buffalo shorts were near on freezing my legs off it was that cold through the middle of the night while we waited to board the Eurostar. Or maybe it was the stress and lack of sleep that had made my body temperature drop; but whatever it was … never again. I repeat, never again! Just in case I hadn’t made it clear.
As I drag my weary body along the landing, I’m welcomed by my suitcase, considerably more battered than when it left, all bound up with US Homeland Security tape and abandoned outside the door to my flat. I’m turning the key in the lock when my neighbour, Frank, pops his head out from behind his front door. It creeps me out; it’s as if he’s been standing there waiting for me. Eeeek!
‘Oh, it is you, just making sure. I signed for the suitcase.’
‘Yes it’s me, and thank you. Really appreciate it,’ I quickly say, trying not to be rude, but I’ve got like one minute to be at the regatta.
‘Right you are. And just so you know, your phone hasn’t stopped – been ringing and ringing all morning; I can hear it through the wall. I’d say somebody is desperate to get hold of you … you know these walls are paper thin, I can hear everything, especially at night.’ He pauses to pull a weird face. ‘You might want to bear that in mind next time one of your gentlemen friends stays over.’ Whaaaat? Err, excuse me. I open my mouth, I close it, I open it again, wishing I could think of a suitably witty comeback, but nothing comes. I close my mouth, figuring whatever, I really don’t have time for this.
‘Um, yes, thanks Frank. Anyway, I better get on. Thanks again,’ I say, going to grab the case by the handle but, on seeing that it’s broken, I have to crouch down and slide it with both hands into my flat instead. Frank is still staring at my backside when I swivel around to close the door behind me.
Inside, and I plug my phone straight onto the charger, then leg it down the hallway and into my bedroom, tearing off the now hideously rank easy-fit pants and buffalo shorts as I go. No time to waste, the regatta officially started an hour ago. I open my suitcase and on second thoughts, no, I can’t wear any of this – the contents have been rifled through and everything smells weird, eugh! I drop a slightly damp T-shirt back into the case and find a clean sundress in my wardrobe instead. It’s a bit crinkled, but it’ll have to do. There’s clean underwear in the airing cupboard, and a pair of last summer’s flip-flops, which I had put in a bag for the charity shop, so after brushing my hair in record time, I’m done.
I bomb back down the hallway, perform a spectacular flyby grab of my shades and phone (30 per cent battery, that will have to do too), fling it in my bag, slam the front door behind me and jump, two at a time, down the stairs before running full pelt into town.
I’m a wheezing heap on arrival, and am hiding behind a parked lorry at the end of Wayfarer Way wondering where all the ice-cream vans are, when Meredith clocks me and marches over, clipboard firmly in place.
‘There you are. I’ve been searching for you for at least an hour. And why haven’t you been answering your phone? I even tried your home number, several times, in case you had slept in or had somehow forgotten that today is the day!’ She has a manic look in her eye. ‘You know the committee agreed to keep in phone contact at all times. So where have you been?’ she interrogates.
‘Oh, all over the place,’ I say in between gasps, and I’m not even lying – if only she knew. ‘Can’t believe how busy it is already, that’ll be why you missed me.’ She looks unconvinced, which is hardly surprising, as there aren’t that many people around, certainly no more than usual. Maybe they will all turn up later, in time for the first boat race, which from memory I think doesn’t actually start until two thirty. I just about manage to refrain from clutching at my collar. Sweet lord of exercise, I really need to do some … I feel as if I’m having a coronary; how did I get to be so unfit?
‘What on earth is the matter with you? We’ve barely started and you look exhausted,’ she sniffs. OK, Meredith, rub it in, why not? I’m a lazy slob who loves food. But I do have gym membership – hmm, shame I never go …
‘Nothing. I’m fine,’ I lie, desperately trying to ignore the pounding sound of my own blood as it pumps into overdrive.
‘Good. Then you’d better get up to the common and sort out the fiasco that’s going on up there. If the police turn up then it’ll be all your fault for swanning off to America at the last minute.’ And with that she stalks off. Flaming hell! Rude. And hold on a minute, the committee all agreed I could go. Nobody objected, from what I can remember, so it’s a bit rich her berating me for it now. And what the fuck is she going on about? Fiasco? I’d better head to the common.
Ten minutes later, I’m now able to breathe – I cheated and hopped in a cab at the end of the high street, figuring it would also buy me a few minutes to call Sam and Tom, I can’t wait to find them. I’m guessing Sam will be in the marquee setting up her cake stall – and Tom …? Well, he could be anywhere. His parents’ yacht, perhaps, might be a good place to start – but both numbers went straight to voicemail. Tom and I have barely spoken all week, with him being in meetings and me at the hospital, and it’s impossible to have a proper text message conversation when he’s only got snatched breaks here and there, and I’m sitting right underneath one of those signs that has a
picture of a mobile phone with a big red cross through it.
And fiasco is a massive understatement. A riot, more like!
‘Annie!’ I yell, but she doesn’t hear me, which is no surprise as that X-rated Rucka Rucka Ali rap song, ‘Only 17’, is fog-horning from giant speakers erected on scaffolding spanning the circumference of the common. A giant carousel takes pride of place in the middle, but it’s not moving, and then I see why. And oh my God, a guy, who I’m guessing is Annie’s Uncle Mikey’s friend (he’s wearing a blue cloth money belt around his waist), instead of smiling and pressing the button so the children can enjoy a gentle jaunt on the merry-go-round to nice, happy, fun-in-the-sun type music, is busy snarling and punching another guy in the head. Kids are clinging to the horses and screaming. Parents are trying to scramble up onto the carousel to retrieve their children. A woman runs over to Annie and points a finger in her face while shrieking something about explicit and highly inappropriate lyrics. And we’ve just reached the ‘all up in her muff’ line, when a police car does a spectacular Starsky and Hutch-style swerve before skidding to a halt right up close to the throbbing electricity generator.
A female police officer, wearing body armour and with a baton at the ready, leaps out of the car and shuts off the power while two of her colleagues head towards the fracas. Uncle Mikey’s mate clocks them and immediately does a runner. Oh shit.
‘Right. Who is in charge here then?’ the police officer demands to know, and Annie turns to look at me before bowing her head and mumbling, ‘I am.’ She walks towards the patrol car with tears in her eyes.
‘Actually, I am. Um, Annie is the deputy team manager, so whatever has gone wrong here is down to me,’ I say, clearing my throat as I step forward, wondering what the hell happened while I was away to turn this into such a disaster. A feeling of dread rattles right through me. I take a deep breath and try to get a grip. It’s been a stressful few days, and everything always seems worse and disproportionate when I’m exhausted. It’ll be fine, this is just a hiccup, the carousel is only one of the events, and I bet the others are already a huge hit. And we haven’t got to the main event yet, the actual boat races. It’ll be fine. Of course it will. I say the words over and over inside my head like a lucky charm mantra.
‘In that case, I have bad news. This fairground attraction is closing down with immediate effect.’
‘But why?’ Annie cries, cupping her trembling hands together up under her chin. ‘I organised the proper licences and everything. Ask Matt from the council, he dealt with everything.’ She turns to me. ‘Georgie, I definitely did it all, I know I did …’ And she dumps her bag on the grass and proceeds to turf out all the contents. ‘See, right here.’ Annie finds a plastic A4 wallet, which she hands to the police officer.
‘That may be the case, but these documents are specifically for,’ the police officer pauses to flip over a page, ‘yes, here it is, see … Jimmy Dyer.’ She taps the piece of paper.
‘Yes, that’s him. Uncle Mikey’s friend.’ Annie nods, calming down a bit.
‘And seeing as he’s just been arrested …’ The police officer points to the other side of the common, where two of her colleagues have caught up with Jimmy and are now bundling him back towards their patrol car. ‘He’s not going to be here for quite some time. Sorry, but you can’t operate machinery like this unless the licence holder is in situ. I suggest you offer all the customers a refund and—’
‘Hang on a minute. You can’t do that. My kids have been waiting here for over an hour for their turn. This is ridiculous. It’s a bloody liberty, that’s what it is. And I want a refund,’ the woman with the pointy finger yells.
‘I’m sorry, madam. It’s the law.’ And the police officer is handed a roll of blue and white tape. She secures one end to the ticket booth and proceeds to walk it around the whole carousel like it’s a giant crime scene. Oh God. People are grabbing their children and running, literally, away from the common now, terrified in case they’re in some kind of danger.
‘What about my refund?’ the woman yells again.
‘You’ll have to take that up with the sponsors.’ That’ll be us, Carrington’s then. I take a big breath before letting out an even bigger one. I swivel around when more people start complaining.
‘Told you, Jade, it’s not safe. That’ll be why they’ve closed it down. Come on, let’s get out of here,’ a man shouts to his girlfriend as they charge past Annie and me.
‘Load of old rubbish this regatta is turning out to be. Let’s go to Brighton instead,’ another guy says as he lifts his crying little boy onto his shoulders.
My heart sinks. I close my eyes and swallow hard. When I open them again – as if it couldn’t get any worse – the bloody ‘Big Fun on the Carrington’s Carousel’ billboard collapses, as a gang of yobs kick it over before legging it, sniggering and swearing. There’s a sickening splintering sound before it crashes, tearing a massive gaping hole, which now has a painted horse’s head poking right through the middle. Then more police turn up and instantly chase after the gang. It’s shambolic; an utter disaster. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a guy with a big camera and a Mulberry Echo press badge dangling on a length of nylon around his neck is snapping away, hell-bent on getting the money shot for the front page of the next edition, no doubt. Grrrreat. All I need now is for Isabella to rock up and give me another one of her lines, only this time she’ll be spot on – I have ‘somehow managed to ruin things’. And the regatta hasn’t even really started yet …
Annie is sobbing now. Crouched down on her haunches in the grass. I kneel down beside her.
‘Hey, come on. There’s no point in crying, these things happen,’ I say, rapidly figuring optimism is the best course of action right now. What else is there? I’ve already written the carousel off; there’s nothing we can do until Jimmy gets back from the police station, if he ever does, and so what’s the point in worrying? At least it’s up here on the common, away from the main event, and with a bit of luck Isabella won’t venture far away from the harbour, so at least she’ll be none the wiser to my seemingly complete ineptitude, which I’m guessing is how she will perceive this fiasco. ‘I’m here now, and I bet everything else is OK. What do you say we go and find out?’ I place a hand on Annie’s back and grin like a looper verging on hysteria.
‘Oh God, Georgie!’ she says, keeping her head bowed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be daft. Come on, let’s go. There’s practically nobody here now anyway.’ I glance around the common, and the crowd has mostly disappeared, leaving just a few stragglers sloping off with slumped shoulders and the place strewn with rubbish. I make a mental note to call Matt and ask him to send the litter team up here.
‘But I wanted it all to be perfect.’
‘And I bet it is. Look, let’s forget about the carousel – Jimmy will come back at some stage and then we can get it back up and running. We might have to dump the billboard though,’ I laugh, trying to lighten the mood, ‘but that’s not the end of the world.’
‘But there’s something else,’ Annie says, quietly.
‘OK,’ I say, slowly. ‘What is it?’ I add gently.
‘It’s the tunnel tours!’
*
Annie and I are outside the magnificent powder-blue Carrington’s building on the opposite side of the road, staring at the length of the queue. People are standing two, three deep, in places, right back to the cinema on Pear Tree Avenue.
‘See what I mean?’ Annie says, gripping the strap of her handbag even tighter. ‘It’s a disaster!’
‘No, it isn’t. This is good, surely?’ I say, delighted by the obvious popularity of this initiative. It’s amazing that so many people want to see beneath the iconic Carrington’s building and hear more about our history. But Annie doesn’t look so sure. And on closer inspection, her eyes are brimming with tears. ‘What is it?’ I ask, gently, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘I’ve messed up again!’
‘But how come? What do you mean?’
‘You’ll see. Follow me.’ And she darts across the road and up to the front of the queue.
‘Hey, you can’t push in – and if I have to wait much longer I’m going to call it a day,’ a man in the queue shouts out.
‘It’s OK, we work here,’ I smile to cover the sinking feeling inside.
‘Well, you’d better get it sorted then. I booked for the first slot and it’s already gone eleven o’clock.’
‘We will. I promise. Come on, Annie.’ I grab her hand and we run through the staff entrance at the side of the building, and quickly make our way along the narrow, winding staff corridor, sidestepping a couple of stock trolleys piled high with flattened cardboard boxes, to reach the big Carrington’s Tunnel Tour placard that has been erected next to the gilt caged staff lift.
And then it immediately becomes obvious what the hold-up is: Betty and Mrs Grace are sitting on the floor of the lift, next to six big boxes full of her autobiography hardbacks, suspended just below the ground level.
‘Oh, thank God you’re here, lovey,’ Mrs Grace says, poking a bony hand up through the bottom of the metal concertina lift door. I crouch down and push my arm through a gap to clasp her arm. ‘This damn lift has broken down – an hour we’ve been sat here waiting for the emergency guy from the lift maintenance company to show his face. Emergency, my arse! My Stan could move faster, and that’s saying something; he hasn’t managed to shift his backside away from the telly for decades now, unless it’s to feed those filthy birds of his, of course, and then he’s like a ferret up a drainpipe.’ Oh dear. We all nod politely.
Betty manages to scramble up onto her feet first, and then helps Mrs Grace up before handing her granny bag to her. They both stare up at us – the lift must be stuck about two feet below ground level, so even if we could get the door open somehow, we’d still have to find a way for Betty and Mrs Grace to climb out of the lift.
Ice Creams at Carrington’s Page 18
