Stealing the Show

by Christina Jones

  Oakton’s concrete-and-glass mall offered few amenities. A selection of familiar shops, a very new pub made to look very old, a chip shop, and a tea-room tweely called Alice’s Pantry. This was Claudia’s first port of call. It was a brief stopover.

  Settling herself at a window table with a pink cloth and three artificial carnations in a plastic vase, Claudia ordered a cup of black coffee. Alice, who was sixteen stone and had an incipient moustache, served the coffee with a sour glower. Claudia smiled sweetly in return, crossed her legs, leaned back in her bentwood chair, and surveyed the top half of Oakton through several yards of chintz.

  After five minutes of staring at very little except a faded blue sky above a relentlessly concrete horizon, and becoming less than amused by the disapproving looks from Oakton’s twin-setted matrons who obviously resented Alice’s Pantry being infiltrated by gypsies, Claudia paid for her coffee, sucked in her cheeks, and undulated past the tables of tweed skirts and sturdy brogues.

  ‘Tell yer fortune for a quid, dearie?’

  Suddenly, the matrons found something very exciting to study on the pink tablecloths. One or two tightened their grips on their handbags.

  Giggling, Claudia almost skipped into the precinct. To her joy she had discovered that Oakton had invested in a selection of cheap and cheerful shops, all supplying her favourite skimpy clothes. She enjoyed shopping; enjoyed spending money as much as Danny enjoyed making it. Her credit cards were always right up to the limit. Claudia plunged recklessly in and out of the fitting rooms with a mounting adrenaline rush.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’

  She shifted her carrier bags and peered over her shoulder. It wasn’t the first time she’d been propositioned in the street. She had a selection of witty put-down lines all ready for such occasions. ‘Oh, hell. Hi, Terry. I was just going to say you couldn’t afford me.’

  Terry widened his choirboy eyes. ‘Not on the wages your old man pays I couldn’t. So, do you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She followed him to Ye Olde Home From Home and winced at the dark brown paintwork, the dark yellow walls, and the preponderance of polystyrene oak beams. There was even, she noticed with some amusement, a plastic spider and web. Gaming machines winked and shuffled in neon brilliance in one gloomy corner, and a rather depressing knot of young men with beer bellies and sleeveless T-shirts seemed to be taking up the bar. They all turned and stared at Claudia, who stared back.

  ‘Go and sit down,’ Terry advised. ‘They look like they haven’t seen a woman in months.’

  Claudia sat. Terry was gorgeous; she and Nell had decided when he’d joined them at the beginning of the season that he looked like one of those Australian soap boys. This would do her ego no harm at all. It was only when she watched him walking back, a drink in each hand, that she realised he hadn’t even asked her what she wanted.

  ‘Vodka and orange. No ice.’

  ‘How on earth did you know that?’ This was very impressive.

  ‘It pays to know how to please your employers.’ Terry sat opposite her, crossing lean denim legs. ‘I always make a point of doing a bit of research.’

  She smiled and sipped her drink. Danny would go ballistic – so, she thought briefly, would Nell and Sam. The gaff lads were not in their class socially. One didn’t, ever, mix with them. Claudia smiled to herself. What the hell …

  ‘Are you thinking that your old man would string me up if he saw us?’ Terry had swallowed half his lager.

  ‘Are you a mind-reader too?’

  ‘Nah,’ he grinned and pushed the sun-streaked, floppy hair away from his eyes. ‘Just used to it. I know my place.’

  Claudia sipped the vodka again. It was strong. Probably a double. She was pretty sure that Terry couldn’t afford it unless he’d been short-changing the punters. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Doing what I’m told, working my balls off for a pittance, being extremely grateful for that bug-infested van we live in, and having more freedom than most guys even dream of.’

  They smiled at each other. Claudia looked away first. This was dangerous ground. ‘So, where are the others?’

  ‘Testing the rides. Sweeping off the platforms. Washing down the cars.’

  ‘So why aren’t you?’

  ‘Because I’m here with you.’

  Good God. Panicking slightly, Claudia looked at him again. ‘Do you mean you followed me? Deliberately?’

  Terry laughed. ‘Nah. Don’t sweat. Not that it’s not a nice idea. Actually, your old man sent me to the post office to pick up the mail.’ He patted the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I was on my way back when I saw you. Disappointed?’

  ‘Desperately.’ Claudia sighed with relief. ‘So I suppose you really ought to be getting back?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Terry, glanced up at the pretend-antique clock on the pretend-nicotine-stained wall. ‘Mind, those post office queues can be bastards, can’t they? I’m sure we’ve got time for one more.’

  They had two. More than slightly squiffy, Claudia swung the carrier bags with jaunty nonchalance as they drifted back between the looming rides. In an hour’s time the fair would burst into sham opulence, with noise and lights and music and excitement; now it was slumbering silently, conserving its energy.

  ‘Claudia!’ Danny’s roar made everyone stop and stare. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

  Claudia wobbled into reverse and tried to clear her fuddled brain. Too much vodka had given her false confidence. Terry bit his lip and looked as if he was going to say something. She shook her head. ‘Scarper. It’s my problem – not yours.’ She smiled at her husband and jauntily waved the carrier bags. ‘Just doing a bit of shopping.’

  Danny, veins knotted, face crimson, was practically speechless. ‘Dressed like that? I’ve seen tarts with more sophistication than that! You look like a cheap whore!’

  ‘Lay off her.’ Terry moved between them. ‘She looks great an’ she was shopping – like she said.’

  Without even changing his expression, Danny swung round and hurled his fist at Terry’s nose. Terry, younger and more agile, side-stepped the swipe.

  ‘Don’t!’ Claudia was instantly sober. ‘Danny! For God’s sake!’

  ‘Get indoors! Get that muck off your face! Get some decent clothes on!’

  Everyone had gathered round. The Macs, Sam, the gaff lads, most of the other showmen, and even several Oaktonians who were drifting about staring at the empty rides. Claudia’s teeth were chattering.

  Still quivering, Danny pointed a stubby finger at Terry. ‘And you can piss off! Go! Now!’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ Terry’s voice was quiet. ‘And I’m not going anywhere until I know you won’t lay into her the minute you’ve got her on her own.’

  ‘I don’t hit women.’ Danny’s voice was dangerously level. ‘But I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Danny!’ Claudia brushed away her tears. ‘We weren’t together. He wasn’t – it isn’t – Don’t sack him.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Danny snarled. ‘You think I’m going to keep your toy boy around for you to play with, do you?’

  Sam stepped forward and grabbed Terry’s shoulder. ‘Mick and Alfie need a hand on the dodgems. Two of the cars are knackered. Go on. Now.’ He shrugged at Danny. ‘We don’t sack staff without it being a joint decision – and we don’t do anything on the spur of the moment. Stop washing your bloody dirty linen in public, Dan.’

  With a last anxious glance at Claudia, Terry headed for the dodgems. The Mackenzies were all shaking their heads. The remaining showmen, most of whom knew about Danny’s temper, grinned openly. The Oaktonians, who were pretty sure that the fair was run by tinkers and savages, were delighted to see their theories had been proved correct.

  Claudia fled to the sanctuary of her living wagon. Danny was a crass, jealous, short-tempered, evil bastard, she thought savagely, as she ripped off the false eyelashes and wiped away her smeared make-up. He had to spoil everything. She practically fell off her stilt-high sandals, kicking them
under the William Morris sofa; then, ripping off the T-shirt and skirt, she wrapped herself in her black-and-scarlet kimono.

  ‘Bugger him,’ she muttered belligerently. The vodka and the shouting had made her head ache. ‘I’m not bloody going to look like the frump of the year and stand in that damn hoopla all day for him! He’ll have to find some other mug to –’ She stopped. There was someone at the door. ‘Sod off.’

  The door opened a crack and Claudia sighed. It was probably Nell being dispatched to read the riot act. ‘Go away. You’re not exactly lily-white are you? And I wasn’t doing anything wrong.’

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t.’ Sam closed the door behind him. ‘But then I’m not your extremely possessive husband, am I? Are you OK?’

  Claudia shrugged. Her brother-in-law was invariably the peacemaker in these disputes. ‘I thought you were Nell. Yeah, I suppose so. Now clear off.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Sam perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘Nell’s gone into Oxford on business. She didn’t tell me why, but I’m hoping she’s seen sense and it’s something to do with investing in the Ice-Breaker. I thought I’d better check that you weren’t contemplating suicide – and don’t keep frowning at me like that. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Claudia was irritated. ‘Sure. Positive. I’ve been married to him for ten years. I know how his temper works.’

  ‘Then why do you do it? Dress up and flaunt yourself? You know it annoys him.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’ Claudia narrowed her eyes. ‘But I enjoy it. Both the dressing-up and the annoying.’ She paused. ‘You’re not going to boot Terry out, are you?’

  ‘Would it bother you?’

  ‘Yes, it. bloody would. He’s a nice lad. He didn’t do anything and I’m sick of Danny thinking –’

  ‘That you’re having an affair with him?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Claudia plonked down on the sofa. ‘Of course I’m not. You know I’m not. Danny always thinks that I’m leaping into bed with every man who looks at me.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Well, you do give that sort of impression.’

  Claudia wrapped the kimono more tightly round herself. ‘I dress up because I want to. For me. Not for anyone else. OK?’

  Sam leaned back. ‘Have you ever been unfaithful to Danny?’

  She gave a self-deprecating laugh. ‘Do you think I’d tell you if I had?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Well, no, then. I haven’t.’ Claudia scrubbed at the remaining streaks of mascara and took a deep breath. ‘Danny is the only man I’ve ever slept with. That’s probably half the trouble.’

  Sam didn’t say anything. Claudia gave him a sideways glance. He and Danny – the Bradley men – chalk and cheese. She smiled. ‘Anyway, we’re all a bit unconventional, aren’t we? Me and Danny fighting like cat and dog. Nell playing at being the career woman and out-bulling Ross, while we all know she’s really hopelessly romantic and dreaming of white satin and orange blossom. And you never seem to keep any woman longer than five minutes. It’s hardly the way things are set out in the Showmen’s Guild Guide to Relationships, is it?’

  ‘No.’ Sam shrugged. ‘But I suppose we’ve all got our reasons.’

  They sat in silence, then Claudia said, ‘I used to think you were gay.’

  ‘Why the hell did you think that?’

  ‘Dunno.’ Claudia wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh, you look butch enough, and you’re bloody tough when you want to be. I suppose it was just because you never seem to stay very long in a relationship.’

  ‘And that’s being gay, is it? That’s not being stuffed-full of testosterone and playing the field?’

  ‘I never looked at it that way.’ Claudia stretched her long, bare legs out in front of her. ‘So, if we’re having a soul-searching session, how come you’ve never settled down? You’ve had masses of girlfriends – and yet you never stick with any of them. Why not?’

  ‘You’ve really no idea?’

  Claudia shook her head. ‘No. Tell me.’

  ‘Simple really, although I’m not sure that this is the right time to say so.’ Sam tucked her curls behind her ears and kissed her cheek gently. ‘I’m in love with you.’

  Chapter Six

  It had started to rain., Nell groaned, feeling the first heavy drops as she headed for the dodgems. This was all she needed to round off a perfectly horrible day; raining at six o’clock – just when the Oaktonians might realistically be planning to spend an evening, and their money, at the fair. If the storm lasted longer than half an hour, Nell knew they may as well forget it. Televisions and computer screens would have won the battle.

  The trip to the accountants and the bank manager in Oxford had been less than fruitful. Yes, the Bradleys’ joint business account was extremely healthy, but of course Nell did understand that she’d have to have the signatures of her other partners before making any substantial cash withdrawal? And yes, her own personal account was certainly buoyant, but the sum she had mentioned would deplete all her assets and couldn’t be gathered together in one day – wasn’t she being just a mite rash? Then, when she’d returned to Oakton, she’d heard the story of Danny and Claudia’s row from at least five different sources. Each tale had added embellishments, culminating with Rio Mackenzie who said she had it on good authority that Claudia was definitely expecting Terry’s baby.

  Danny had refused to discuss it with her, Sam was having mechanical problems with the paratrooper, and Claudia – Nell shook her head as she scrambled up into the pay-box. Claudia had declined to man the hoopla and was wandering about in a hideous blue tracksuit, her hair scraped back in a plastic headband, and her face scrubbed bare of all make-up. And to cap it all, her mother had phoned. ‘… Just on the off-chance, love. To see if you’ve thought any more about Ross’s offer …’

  ‘Not much going on tonight.’ Terry, the collar of his leather jacket turned up, was leaning against one of the pillars. ‘A few mums and dads with kids – and they’ll be gone soon if it don’t stop raining. Still, I reckon we did all right this afternoon while it was still sunny.’

  Nell stared up at the sky. It was ominously grey. The hard Oakton soil would soon become boggy and slippery and they could kiss goodbye to any profits. She almost wished they’d abandoned Oakton this year and gone to Wantage for the Street Fair – but then Clem Percival owned the Showmen’s Guild ground rights there and she was damned if she was going to beg him for vacant sites at the last minute. Nor was she entirely happy at the prospect of Danny and Sam spending any more time than was absolutely necessary with the entrepreneurial Percivals and their ever-ready cheque book.

  ‘Sod it. Let’s have some action.’ She flashed the lights on the dodgem track, turned the sound system up to brain-splitting, and leaning across yelled in Terry’s ear, ‘This’ll fetch ’em away from Emmerdale – even if it is only to complain – and don’t move. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘No one can talk over that!’ Terry mouthed back. ‘An’ if it’s about this morning – don’t bother. I’ve been threatened by Psycho Danny and warned off by Sam. I don’t need your lecture as well.’

  Nell reduced Meatloaf’s volume slightly. ‘I wasn’t going to lecture you. Just give you a bit of friendly advice. No doubt Sam told you that it’s happened before – before you even joined us. Claudia is a flirt and Danny is pathologically jealous; it’s not a good combination. So don’t even think about getting involved with her. She is definitely off-limits.’

  ‘Christ.’ Terry uncurled himself from the pillar. ‘I know that. I like this job and I sure as hell don’t want to lose it. I’ve worked for other firms – and this is like five stars in comparison. Claudia’s a nice lady – but she’s out of my league.’ His eyes widened. ‘That, though, certainly isn’t …’

  Nell followed his gaze. A crowd of schoolgirls, all in sprayed-on denim and Lycra and wearing too much make-up, were huddled under the dodgems’ multi-coloured canopy, trying to avoid the drips. Turning up-his collar even more and swaggering a la
James Dean, Terry went in for the kill. ‘Just in time for the next ride, darlings. Would you like some help with the steering?’

  The rain continued. However bright the lights, however loud the music, Nell knew that tonight was going to be a failure. The Macs had given up on the swinging boats, and the juvenile ride rotated sadly with just one or two intrepid toddlers driving fire engines or steering buses watched by proudly waving, but very wet, parents.

  ‘Mrs Bradley?’

  Nell, miles away – well, halfway down the A34 and dreaming of the gallopers and the Gavioli, jumped as the voice bellowed in her ear.

  ‘Miss.’ She leaned across and shifted the volume control so that the Spice Girls sounded almost melodic. ‘Can I help you?’

  The tall man with rain dripping from the edges of his trilby and trickling down the very shiny shoulders of his quilted brown anorak, shook his head. ‘I want to speak to your father.’

  ‘My father lives on the Dorset coast,’ Nell said. This was the final straw. A fairground aficionado who probably collected the serial numbers of the dodgems’ plates or something equally obscure. ‘He retired two years ago.’

  ‘Ah.’ The visitor sucked the damp ends of his moustache. ‘Your husband, then.’

  ‘Haven’t got one,’ Nell said cheerfully. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘HSE.’ The man produced a wallet and a Health and Safety identity card. ‘Spot-check.’

  Shit, bugger, damn, Nell thought, smiling angelically. ‘You’ve picked a good night for it. I thought you lot only appeared on sunny days, and then in pairs like Batman and Robin.’

  There was no reaction. Nell tried again. ‘Is it something specific? Have you had a complaint?’

  ‘There have been several complaints from the new housing estate.’ The Health and Safety Inspector looked as though most of them had involved grievous bodily harm. ‘Mostly about noise. Sadly, that’s out of our environs.’

  Oh, goody. ‘So? Is there a problem?’

  ‘Not with the dodgems or the waltzer. They were checked at Broadridge Green, I understand. However, I couldn’t find anyone in charge of the paratrooper.’