Stealing the Show

by Christina Jones

  ‘Hello, Nell.’ The voice sliced through the darkness.

  She jumped. ‘Oh – er – don’t do that, Ross. You frightened the life out of me.’

  ‘You looked as though you were miles away.’

  ‘Not really.’ Nell lifted her face for his brief kiss of greeting. ‘Just in Oxfordshire and Berkshire villages.’

  He walked beside her, not touching. She could smell his cologne. Everything about Ross Percival was expensive. Handmade suits, hand-stitched shoes, salon-layered hair, even his smile cost money. Nell wondered if that was the real reason she didn’t want to marry him. Not simply because she wasn’t in love with him, but because – despite Sam’s assurance that it wasn’t so – Ross was so sure that she was just another asset to be acquired; a subsidiary of Bradleys’ Mammoth Fun Fair to be taken over with the goods and chattels. Love, as her mother kept telling her, came second to a good and profitable partnership. Love was for films and books and outsiders. That sort of love would grow.

  Nell was sure it wouldn’t. Nell was convinced that love would one day hit her smack between the eyes with trumpets, fireworks, and a deluge of rose petals. She hadn’t, of course, shared this with her mother.

  The Bradley and Percival families had known each other all their lives, and Nell and Ross had been bracketed together for the last eight years. The entire Showmen’s Guild was waiting for the notice in The World’s Fair, it seemed. ‘Mr and Mrs Peter Bradley are delighted to announce the engagement of their only daughter, Petronella, to Ross, only son of Mr and Mrs Clem Percival. Both of the London Section.’

  Ross was extremely handsome, extremely rich, well educated, polite, ambitious – Nell sighed. It simply wasn’t enough to make her give up everything and become part of the Percival empire. Because that’s what it would mean. Not only were showpeople expected to marry into the profession, but women were supposed to throw in their lot with their future husbands. Of course, Nell thought, most women were leaving their parents’ fairs and seemed delighted to be striking out on their own. But for her it was different.

  The Percivals – Ross, his two sisters and their parents – were as high in the showmen’s hierarchy as it was possible to get. Clem Percival, Ross’s father, was the Richard Branson of the travelling band. Everything he bought, or into which he invested, returned his money a thousandfold. He was ahead of the trends, rarely made mistakes, was respected, well-liked, and, whatever walk of life he had been born into, would have made a fortune.

  And, as Adele Bradley never tired of telling Nell, Ross Percival was the catch of the decade. Showmen’s daughters across the country were queuing up to leap into her size-eight shoes – and yet her reluctance to marry him only appeared to make him more keen.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to Danny, which shouldn’t take long,’ Ross said, ‘and then I thought we’d go out to eat. I’ve booked a late table at Ma Belle. As long as we’re there before midnight, Antoine’ll serve us.’

  ‘Sounds nice – but I really don’t think –’

  ‘Why not? No strings tonight, Nell. Honest. I want to eat out and I want some company. I’m not asking you on a date. Just as a friend. OK?’

  ‘OK, then. But if you’re talking business to Danny, I want to be there.’

  ‘I’d rather you weren’t. You’ll argue long and hard and we’ll miss the table – and I’m starving. You go and do the necessary and keep out of my way for –’ Ross glanced at the Rolex on his wrist, ‘ten minutes should do it.’

  ‘Twenty,’ Nell said. ‘And don’t start the wheeler-dealer part without me. I’ve got some pies and things to heat up for the lads before I even begin to put on the warpaint.’

  ‘Tell ’em to eat at the pub,’ Ross said. ‘We do.’

  ‘I know. We do things differently on these small fairs, though, remember? The lads work hard for us and we feed them.’

  Ross ruffled her hair. Nell wished he wouldn’t treat her as though she was pink and fluffy. ‘Don’t glare at me – I promise I won’t get on to the important points on the schedule until you arrive, but try not to be late. I’m fine with your erratic timing – but don’t keep Danny waiting.’

  She didn’t. She fed the lads from the microwave, showered, piled her hair on top of her head, pulled on a Nicole Farhi suit, and was still blotting her lipstick as she opened Danny’s door. Claudia had poured huge drinks and Danny, Sam, and Ross were all lounging on the William Morris sofa.

  ‘Wow!’ Ross patted the seat beside him. ‘You look sensational. Come and sit down.’

  Declining the chance to be squashed up next to Danny, she perched on the arm of Claudia’s chair. ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘Nothing except the extremely healthy balance sheet – taxable and declared – of Percival Touring Entertainments.’ Claudia, now minus the false eyelashes, and with baggy grey sweatpants replacing the denim skirt and boots, said, ‘Oh, and how we can’t hope to survive for more than two years if we carry on the way we’re going and –’

  Nell quickly swallowed her mouthful of gin and tonic. ‘Pack it in, Ross. We’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘Not this bit you haven’t.’ Ross was leaning back, one elegantly-trousered knee crossed over the other. ‘You know we bought the Ice-Breaker last year?’

  Nell knew. The Ice-Breaker was the largest touring ride in Britain. Clem Percival had paid an alleged three-quarters of a million for it from a Midlands manufacturer. It had even made national television. She nodded. ‘You’re not going to tell me that we could have one as a jolly addition to Bradleys’ Mammoth Fun Fair, are you? That it would sit nicely beside the swinging boats and the coconut sheet? Or that Danny has already signed the hire purchase agreement? Or –’

  Ross uncrossed his legs. ‘Dad has just bought the Jesson Company that makes the Ice-Breaker. Which means that Percivals can now supply it – and similar large hydraulic rides – to fairs across the world, and especially in Britain, at far cheaper prices. Danny and Sam agree that something like the Ice-Breaker, maybe on a smaller scale, is exactly what you need to drag you into the next millennium. If you don’t, small fairs like this will be a thing of the past.’

  Nell put her glass down on the rosewood table. Claudia immediately slipped a coaster underneath it. ‘No way. We can’t afford it. Not even at your special knock-down rates. We don’t want it –’

  ‘You don’t want it,’ Danny said quietly, making Nell look at him. He was deadly when he was quiet. ‘Sam and I disagree. And we can afford it if we pool all our money, especially now we’re going to join forces with Percivals and ’

  Nell glared at him. ‘Says who? Bradleys has been a family fair for generations. We’re not selling out to Clem Percival – sorry Ross – not ever. You know how I feel.’

  Ross smiled his panther smile. ‘Yes, I do. And I knew how you’d react. And I’m not asking you to sell your soul. Mergers are happening all the time to keep traditional travelling fairs alive in the face of theme-park opposition. It makes sense. Danny and Sam would get their up-to-the-minute rides and you would keep Bradleys independent.’

  Nell was aware of Claudia holding her breath; of Sam and Danny watching her carefully. It did make sense. They all wanted her to say yes; she knew they did.

  ‘How would we be independent with you becoming part of us? We might keep the name but you’d hold the power. No. I’m sorry. I won’t agree.’

  Claudia sighed. Danny and Sam shook their heads.

  Ross glanced again at the Rolex and fished his mobile phone from an inside pocket. ‘I’ll just ring Ma Belle and tell them we’re on our way, shall I?’ He laughed at Nell’s murderous expression. ‘What? It’ll be fine – oh, hi. Ma Belle? Ross Percival. I’ll be there in half an hour. Tell Antoine …’ He clicked off the phone and smiled at Nell. ‘Why do you always suspect my motives? Sam and Danny are all for it.’

  Nell felt her face flame. It was another drawback that went with her colouring. If she agreed to this, she’d never realise her dream. If she didn’t, she’d al
ienate her entire family. And Ross was probably the only man she would marry. But, she groaned inwardly, she didn’t love him. Was that something else she was supposed to give up?

  ‘Just don’t expect any financial input from me, because you won’t be getting it. I won’t sign any business cheques and I certainly won’t be dipping into my savings.’ She shrugged towards her brothers. ‘If you can afford to buy in without me, then fine. If you can’t, then there’s no point in Ross thinking anymore about the merger, is there?’

  ‘If you and Ross got married,’ Danny clinked the ice in his glass in a very threatening manner, ‘none of that would apply.’

  Nell felt Claudia wince. She was aware that Sam was watching her.

  ‘Very subtle, Dan.’ Ross grinned, then looked at Nell. ‘How about it? Marriage first, machines second. Pretty good business proposition all round, I’d say.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Come on then, Copperknob. Let’s talk about it over dinner.’

  Chapter Three

  Adele Bradley flicked over the potatoes in the roasting pan and wondered if she’d done enough. Nell was bound to be starving. Adele knew, with the universal certainty of mothers, that not only did her daughter not look after herself properly, she also skimped on meals, slept with her make-up on, and never wore a vest.

  A good home-cooked Sunday roast, Adele thought as she closed the oven door, was just what Nell needed. Not these convenience things that tasted of cardboard and chemicals and got lasered into life in the microwave. Adele tossed the oven gloves on top of the draining board in disgust. That wasn’t how the Bradley women did things. Every Sunday, no matter where they were, she’d produced a full roast meal for her family and the gaff lads – and still had enough for cold cuts and bubble-and-squeak on Monday.

  She fanned herself with one of the Sunday supplements. A roast meal, a warm day, and a hot flush did very little for her composure. She reached for the massed ranks of evening primrose capsules and vitamin B, scooped a handful, swallowed them with the remains of a glass of beer, and blew upwards on her damp face. The daytime hot flushes she could just about cope with; the night sweats were quite another matter.

  Nell was always banging on about the benefits of HRT, but Adele wasn’t sure she’d be happy about filling her body with something extracted from the waste matter of horses. No, she’d cope as her mother had coped, and her mother before her. Women’s Troubles, it had been called then. As far as Adele was concerned, it still should be. Along with menstruation and childbirth. She was pretty sure that if the male menopause was physical as well as mental, someone would have done something about it by now. Men had such low tolerance levels. Mind you, it wasn’t merely the matter of the discomfort, her entire body seemed to alternate without warning between total exhaustion and firing on overdrive. Adele sighed heavily. This was a twitchy period. She was beginning to get restless again. She needed something to take up the slack of her energy.

  It had taken Adele some time to settle down to retirement in Highcliffe. Born in a living wagon in a field outside Banbury, and able to trace her travelling history back through generations, she’d felt nothing but pity for the punters who went home every night to the same house; who looked out each morning on the same view; who knew exactly who they’d see each day. Her life was mobile, ever-changing, and she relished the challenge of pastures new. She would have confidently wagered the family silver on eventually turning up her toes in a layby somewhere off the A420.

  When, following Peter’s illness, she was suddenly incarcerated in this huge static house with empty rooms – for the first time in her life Adele had to face the challenge of free-standing furniture – and no prospect of going anywhere ever again, she had almost given up. Almost, but not quite. Capitulation was not a Bradley option, but it had been a pretty close thing.

  The porcelain and crystal had been bubble-wrapped in packing cases, the Chinese silk rugs still rolled with sheets of tissue, and Adele had, on that first day, sat on the bare boards of the echoing staircase and cried. Then she’d blown her nose, summoned all her resilience, and spent the next few weeks dragging an equally out-of-water Peter round every country-house sale in Hampshire and Dorset. If they were going to have to live in one place for the rest of their lives, then Adele Bradley was determined that they were going to do it in style.

  Now, she thought happily, opening the kitchen door and stepping out into the rainbow riot of her garden, there were more than enough advantages to make up for the lack of travelling. Once the house had been furnished and decorated – possibly with a touch too much embossed gold for the more sober Highcliffe residents – Adele, with time on her hands, had discovered Delia Smith and that she had surprisingly green fingers.

  Adele’s garden now occupied fifth place in her affections, just behind Delia. Elvis Presley was third. There had been quite a hoo-ha in Highcliffe when, merely days after moving in, Adele and Peter had renamed Sunny Gables – over a hundred years old, groaning with wisteria and with a clifftop view of the sea – Graceland. There was even more of a shemozzle when they’d replaced the sweetly-resonant doorbell with a specially commissioned set of chimes which played the first few bars of ‘Love Me Tender’.

  Joint top of the list was Peter, of course, and her cat Priscilla. Her children, as well as Claudia, were second. Adele and Peter had been married for thirty-eight years – since she was sixteen – and she was simply sure she’d die without him. Priscilla had joined them not long after they’d moved into Graceland – a small scraggy bundle of grey fur mewing pathetically on the drive. Never having had a pet during her travels, Adele had swooped on the kitten and turned it into her surrogate grandchild.

  With Priscilla on her knee, she sat amongst the early geraniums which flourished so well in this mild spot, and looked at her watch. Nell had telephoned over an hour ago to say she was just leaving Broadridge Green, so allowing for traffic she should arrive soon. Adele had stressed that Sunday dinner meant just that. There was still some confusion, she thought, especially amongst her new-found Highcliffe friends, over the naming and timing of meals.

  On fair days they had had a crack-of-dawn breakfast; lunch, which was elevenses and probably served up somewhere around nine; dinner at midday; tea just before the fair opened for the evening; and supper when it closed. Adele and Peter had turned up at very peculiar times for their first few social invitations in Highcliffe, and still couldn’t see why anyone with any inkling of British cultural history could refer to Sunday’s midday meal as lunch. Among the upper classes it had always been dinner because it was the only day of the week that the servants had been given the afternoon off and therefore served the main meal before they left. She’d pointed this out at the WI and Cynthia Hart-Radstock had become quite sniffy about Adele’s superior knowledge.

  ‘Slacking again?’ Peter Bradley clicked in through the wicket gate that led to the clifftop. ‘I thought you’d be slaving over a hot Yorkshire pudding or three. Feeling OK?’

  ‘Fine. Cooler now.’ Adele moved up on the seat as he sat beside her. ‘Nell should be here at any minute.’

  ‘It’s a pity they’re not all coming.’ Peter lifted his face to the sun. ‘It’s a long time since we were all together.’

  ‘Best they’re not this time.’ Adele linked her arm through his, delighted at how well he looked after his morning constitutional along the beach. ‘I gather from Nell that there are rumblings. She’d never get a chance to say anything if Danny was here – or Ross.’

  ‘I suppose not. She didn’t say what exactly?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. You know Nell. Prising things out of her is like getting a winkle out of its shell. I will, though. So, when I tip you the nod, you just vanish. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Peter, who had commanded the fair with a loud voice and even louder curses, and who had been mightily feared by his younger employees for his irascible early-morning temper, was only too aware of his parental role. He may well have been in charge of the business, but Adele ruled th
e family. ‘I’ll leave it to you.’

  They lapsed into silence, enjoying Priscilla’s purring and the heat from the late April sun, listening to the screech of the wheeling gulls, and the distant shushing of the sea on the shingle. It was a far, far cry from the cacophony of the generators, the loud music, the shouts and screams, and the chug of diesel engines. When they’d first retired Adele had been convinced that the silence would send her insane. Now she couldn’t imagine how she’d spent her life surrounded by so much noise.

  After Peter’s second heart attack and the bypass surgery, when the surgeons had told her that he would live healthily into a ripe old age only if he stopped work immediately, life had looked very bleak indeed. Most showpeople, when faced with illness, simply took to their living wagons and still travelled with the fair, merely taking on lighter duties. Peter’s doctors had said this wasn’t an option. Retirement meant just that; a new life with no stress, no involvement, nothing too strenuous.

  Adele thought back to those early days with sadness. Terrified that he would die, they’d spoken to the solicitors and accountants, divided up the fair, and taken their living wagon back to their winter quarters in Fox Hollow. Imprisoned in the empty yard, seeing no one, no longer being involved, Peter had fretted and Adele had worried. It had been a sort of living death. It had been Nell who had suggested a complete move away and who had discovered Highcliffe.

  Quaintly beautiful, full of retired people, and close enough to the main route to Fox Hollow, it had seemed ideal. There had been teething troubles, of course; but now, Adele thought contentedly, it was the most perfect place on earth. Peter was growing fitter by the day, they had good friends who were fascinated by their previous way of life – and several acquaintances, of course, who weren’t – and Graceland. If only Danny and Claudia would produce a grandchild, Sam would marry someone, and Nell … She sighed. If only Nell would marry Ross Percival. A link between the Bradleys and the Percivals. A real rung up the showmen’s society ladder.