Jack stopped caressing the horse. ‘You must have winter quarters? Why don’t you keep them there for the time being?’
Fox Hollow? Why not? There would be plenty of room there, at least until the fair pulled in at back-end. Nell didn’t feel quite so sick. ‘Actually, that’s a pretty good idea. We’ve got a huge storage shed. And no one will go near them until November – by which time they’ll be restored and –’
‘So you’re going to carry on the restoration, then?’
‘No.’ She grinned at him. ‘You are.’ She reached out her hand. ‘Welcome to the very early beginnings of Petronella Bradley’s Memory Lane Fair.’
Chapter Eleven
‘Darling! At last!’ Fiona swayed across the miniature patio. ‘We’d almost given you up – hadn’t we, guys?’
Jack gazed with horror at the half-cut crowd in the garden. Fiona coiled herself unsteadily around him and nuzzled his neck. ‘I promised you a party – and here it is. Do stop scowling, sweetheart. Go and get out of that ghastly leather gear and shower off that smell of motorbike. Did you manage to sell all your old junk?’
Jack said nothing. He looked across Fiona’s head. They were all there, packed like panatellas in a larchwood fence box. All their neighbours from the Identikit houses: Giles and Caroline, Fergus and Dotty, Adrian and Belinda, Stan and Adam, and that rather peculiar couple, whose names always escaped him, who had stripy hair and nose-rings and rattled on about tantric sex – not to mention several people he’d never seen before. And – oh God – surely that wasn’t his parents crouched over the barbecue? Fiona must have used all her powers of persuasion to drag his father away from work and his mother from her voluntary do-gooding at the local day centre.
‘How much have you had to drink? How bloody long have this lot been here?’
‘Grouchy! I had to dish out the booze in large quantities, darling, because we’ve been holding the food until you got back. With some difficulty I may add. Most of them have been here since three. I thought the auction would be over by lunchtime.’
‘Well it wasn’t. There were a lot of things to sort out afterwards as well. Paperwork, transport, general clearing-up. All I want is a bath and a beer and bed.’
‘Sounds great.’ Fiona started nibbling his ear. ‘I’m sure they won’t miss me for an hour or so.’
Jack rubbed his ear in irritation. ‘Why the hell are my parents here?’
Fiona pouted at him. Once that pout had seemed little-girlish and appealing and had turned Jack into a protector. Not any more. Nell Bradley wouldn’t pout or need protecting, he thought. Or maybe she would. What did he know? Fiona was a hard-nosed businesswoman who liked playing at being dithery and sweet when it suited her. Did Nell play those games too? Did all women? He probably understood as little of Fiona’s needs as she did of his. Feeling guilty, he didn’t push her away.
‘I invited your parents because I wanted them to join in the celebration. After all, Eileen and Bill have hated your involvement with the anoraks as much as I have. Now go and put on your party face, and come and tell us all about it.’
‘There’s not much to tell. We sold most of it. We’ve got until the end of the month to make sure the barns are empty. It went well.’ He looked at the crowd. ‘And since you’ve got this lot here I suppose I ought to join in. Give me half an hour to get cleaned up. Tell Dad he can start playing Jamie Oliver – and keep my mother away from me.’
He barged across the broiling garden. The sun still shimmered relentlessly in the cloudless early-evening sky. The garden wasn’t big enough to liberate half-a-dozen free-range hens in, let alone entertain Newbury’s chattering classes to a barbecue. And there was no damn shade. The exact square of the lawn was bordered by orange marigolds, planted six inches apart, with an embryo lavatera in each corner. When they eventually flowered they’d probably be bloody orange too, Jack thought, baring his teeth at Giles and Belinda or Fergus and Caroline or whatever their damn names were.
‘Jack! I say, Jack!’
He groaned. His mother, dressed in her barbecue best – geometric palazzo pants and a voluminous clashing over-shirt – bored her way through the throng. They almost touched cheeks.
‘Darling!’ Eileen Morland wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘You pong of motorbike! Still, you won’t be needing that either now, will you? You can buy a nice roomy Vauxhall and drive around in style.’
‘I’m not giving up the bike.’
There was a gust of raucous laughter from the party-goers as someone stumbled into the flowerbed. A lavatera was trampled in the melee. Three to go, Jack thought.
‘Of course you will,’ Eileen insisted, in much the same tone as she had used when he’d said he’d never pass his A-levels. ‘You have standards, darling. Standards that have taken a dip in latter years. Anyway, now that all this nonsense is out of your system you can find plenty of things to occupy your time, can’t you?’
‘Such as?’
‘Dad thought about putting you forward for the Rotarians. And the golf club.’
‘Over my dead body. I’m not joining anything that involves wearing bad-taste jumpers and self-congratulatory pomposity.’
Eileen shrieked. ‘Oh, Jack! You’re a wicked tease! Your poor father has slaved – yes, slaved – to get where he is today. You’re our only son, Jack, and we expect certain things from you. Fiona has put up with your whims and fancies for long enough. Now that you’ve given up all this fairground tomfoolery, Dad and I are hoping that you’ll settle down to a normal life.’
Normal? Jack glowered at the drink-clutching crowd. This was normal? This was what he’d be expected to do for the rest of the summer? Drinks and the latest Good Housekeeping al fresco meals with the neighbours? And then in the winter – oh God, it would be kitchen suppers and ‘just a half of cooking, old boy’ in the appallingly modern Turlington Arms on the corner. And the only relief would be work, work, and more work. Work that he was increasingly aware he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in. If he didn’t enjoy living in the Morland houses, why should anyone else? Was this what they expected his life to be from now on?
Well, tough. Someone was going to be bitterly disappointed. For the rest of the summer he’d be up to his elbows in turps and linseed oil and paint at Fox Hollow and then, by September, the gallopers would be ready to roll …
‘… and I said – Jack, are you listening to me?’
‘What? Yes, of course I am.’ Jack was sweltering inside his jacket. He tried very hard to concentrate on his mother’s barbecue-flushed face and wondered whether he should tell her she had charcoal smudges on her cheeks. ‘That’s brilliant.’
Eileen Morland rocked slightly. ‘Brilliant? I’m sure poor Mrs Nettleworth didn’t think it was brilliant. Made redundant at her age and her husband out of work for months already. There’s an awful lot of heartache involved in running the day centre, you know. Do try to concentrate, darling. And go and get spruced up. Fiona’s gone to a lot of trouble today, and I for one am absolutely starving.’
Fiona had joined them. She and Eileen shared a pussycat smile.
‘Have you told him yet?’ Fiona asked artlessly.
Eileen shook her rigid fringe. ‘No, not yet. It ought to come from you, anyway. And I really think the poor love ought to go and get into something more suitable. Haven’t you got a nice pair of cavalry twills, Jack, and a sports shirt?’
‘No I bloody haven’t. And what haven’t you told me?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’ Eileen frowned at Fiona. ‘It’ll keep – unlike the barbecue. Go on, darling. Get changed. We’ll talk later.’
Jack shouldered his way through a giggling Stan and Adam who, arms entwined, were sipping from each other’s glasses.
‘Excuse me!’ Adam flicked white wine from his skin-tight lilac T-shirt. ‘Oh, it’s you Jack. Hi.’
‘Er – hi.’ Jack always felt uncomfortable with Stan and Adam. It had nothing to do with their sexuality. It was their happiness that unnerved him. ‘
Sorry.’
‘No probs. You can drench me with wine any time you like.’ Adam beamed, then stopped as Stan, who worked in security and had tattoos, glared at him.
Jack was laughing as he barged into the house.
Once he’d showered and changed into clean jeans – Fiona enjoyed ironing and insisted on pressing a neat crease right down the legs of his Levis – and T-shirt, he carefully removed the card with Nell’s phone number from his leather jacket. Then he shut himself into the box that Morland Executive Homes claimed to be ‘bedroom five with fitted utilities, or a compact study for the home-worker’.
Of course, he thought, as he punched out Diadem Transport’s telephone number in Upton Poges, he should really be doing this on his mobile. Not that Fiona ever checked the itemised BT bill, but she might just start. So what? He’d told her he had to arrange transport, hadn’t he? He just hadn’t been specific. The phone rang and rang. It was probably a stupid time to call. Saturday evening. Diadem Transport had probably packed up and gone home long since.
‘Diadem Transport. Good evening. How may I help you?’
‘Oh, hello. This is Jack Morland. You made a collection and delivery for me some months ago. Bulk. Fairground stuff. Yes, that’s right. From Cornwall. I was wondering if we could transport the same loads – and a few extras …’
As he’d expected, Diadem Transport were helpful, efficient, and very affordable. Having made the arrangements for Saturday fortnight, Jack replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair. The mixed scents of charcoal and grilling meat wafted up into the stifling room and he realised he hadn’t eaten all day. He was hungry. He wondered if he should ring Nell and tell her he’d sorted out the transport. Maybe she was eating now. No, of course she wasn’t. She’d be working. At King’s Bagley. Miles away. Another life away.
While Nell had been handing over the cheque for the gallopers and the organ, Jack had confused the auctioneer further by suspending the bidding on the caterpillar and withdrawing the ghost train from the sale.
He’d had hurried conversations with the remainder of the Downland Trust. Yes, he was quite sure he knew what he was doing. No, there wasn’t a problem about money; he’d buy them back himself. Yes, they could await collection with the Savage and the Gavioli. Yes, he had plans – but someone had better tell the auctioneer.
Dennis did. After frowning and sighing and sorting out his paperwork, the auctioneer had gathered momentum once more and rattled on to a selection of farm implements. The bidders and watchers had settled back in their uncomfortable tiers and consulted their catalogues, the excitement over.
Jack had found Nell standing beside the Gavioli, still looking stunned.
‘What else does Petronella Bradley’s Memory Lane Fair need?’
‘Need?’ She’d looked at him in some confusion. ‘I can’t afford to buy anything else.’
‘No, I realise that. I’m talking hypothetically. Fantasy fairground.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, you name it and we’ll need it.’
High as a kite, Jack had grinned. ‘What about side stalls? And a kid’s ride? Pity those old biddies bought the chairoplanes – maybe I could make them an offer they couldn’t refuse.’
She’d shaken her head. ‘Slow down! I haven’t got a clue how I’m going to finance the gallopers – let alone a whole fairground of historic rides.’
‘Fantasy historic rides, remember?’
‘The gallopers are a reality – and they’re going to cost a bomb.’ Nell had looked quite worried. ‘I really don’t see –’
‘Simple. The boys’ll help with the rest of the restoration. They’ll love it. And then once they’re ready for the road – well, it’ll be like letting children loose in McDonald’s. And they’ll work for free. Percy and Dennis and the rest of them are raring to go. And don’t worry about the practicalities. Things will work out. Now, how about the rest of it?’
‘OK, then.’ She’d wrinkled her nose, joining in the game. ‘A slip – oh, that’s helter-skelter to you – being a flatty. And maybe a small big wheel. And a ghost train and a caterpillar would be brilliant. And stalls to you are joints to us. So we’ll probably need hooplas, and wheel’em ins, and a roll-up – a really old one like Feed The Ducks would be ideal.’ Her eyes had shone with enthusiasm. ‘And yes, you’re right, a couple of juveniles – rides for the kids in English – and an old-fashioned speedway.’ She’d grinned. ‘Do I have to explain that?’
‘Dodgems without the bite?’
‘Dead right. OK then, and a Noah’s Ark – because I doubt if I could lay my hands on an autodrome – and –’
‘John Carter, watch out!’
‘I’m hardly likely to be in that league,’ she’d said firmly. ‘And Jack – I’m very grateful to you and Percy and Dennis and the rest of them.’
They’d grinned at each other, each realising they were within inches of holding onto a dream.
‘Er, Jack?’
Catapulted back to the present, Jack swung round on his chair, his body still pounding. His father, red-faced from the barbecue and looking embarrassed, was standing in the doorway.
‘Christ. You startled me. Is there a problem? How long have you been there?’
‘Quite some time. I wasn’t meaning to eavesdrop. I’ve been dispatched to tell you that the food’s ready. Over-ready in fact. Some of it got a bit burnt. Everything all right?’
‘Fine. Fine.’ Jack knew he might be able to fool his mother. He might be able to conceal things from Fiona. His father was a different matter.
Bill Morland was tall, lean-framed, and had the same dark good looks as his son. He perched on the edge of the desk. ‘I heard some of it. The transport bit. You’re not giving it up, are you?’
‘No. But if I tell you what’s going on I really would appreciate it if you could keep it to yourself. Not a word to Mother or Fiona.’
‘We’re partners, Jack, as well as father and son. We’ve kept each other’s confidences for some considerable time. But I can’t say I approve. You’re taking too much time away from the business as it is. Time that should be spent out on the road, negotiating for prime sites. We’re up against Barratts and Wimpeys all the time – not to mention the smaller firms coming up on the rails. We’ve done well – I want to do better.’
So do I, Jack thought, so do I. He sighed. ‘You don’t give up the Rotarians or playing rounds of golf or –’
‘Both ideal for business opportunities,’ Bill interrupted. ‘Contacts made, deals struck. My interests nurture the firm, whereas yours – well, I won’t say they detract, as such, but they certainly don’t enhance it, do they? And they certainly don’t enhance your relationship with Fiona. She won’t be happy about it, Jack.’
‘I’m not going to tell her.’
‘Good God – you won’t have to. Women have built-in radar. Fiona will suss out what’s going on very quickly. She’s an astute lady. No, I won’t say anything – but don’t expect me to be happy about it. So, what exactly are your plans?’
Jack told him. Leaving out Nell’s involvement entirely, of course. The fewer people who knew about Nell Bradley the better. His parents, like Fiona, were convinced that all showmen were thieves and vagabonds. His father’s face grew more stern with each shake of the head. Balls, Jack thought, I’m not a kid any more. I refuse to be intimidated.
He stood up. ‘So that’s it. And we’d better get downstairs before the vultures have scoffed all of the charred remains. Take it or leave it, Dad. It’s my life.’
The barbecue had gone very well. Everyone was so plastered that they ate everything, burnt or not, and trampled the marigolds to a pulp. Stan and Adam had a row, which ended with Adam in tears on the futon being comforted by Fiona and Belinda and Dotty, while the nose-ring couple soothed Stan with details of their three-day sexual marathons.
Eileen and Bill departed at this point. Jack had walked with them to their car, avoiding his father’s disappointed eyes. Eileen planted a huge kiss on h
is cheek. ‘It’s been lovely, darling. You and Fiona must come to us very soon. Sunday lunch, say in a couple of weeks’ time?’
‘I’ll check with Fiona. I might be busy.’
‘I’m sure you won’t be,’ Bill said shortly. ‘Not on a Sunday. Not any more.’
‘No.’ Eileen squeezed Jack’s hand. ‘Won’t it be lovely? Having your Sundays free now that you don’t have to go and paint all that old rubbish?’
‘Lovely,’ Jack agreed, not looking at them. ‘Wasn’t there something that you and Fiona wanted to discuss with me? You said earlier –’
Eileen looked coy. ‘Fiona will tell you. You’ll absolutely love it, darling. I can’t imagine why we didn’t think of it before. Dear girl, she’s put up with such a lot from you – and she loves you very much. It’s her way of thanking you for your sacrifice.’
‘Sacrifice?’
‘In giving up the Downland Preservation Trust. We all know that you’ve done it for her, darling, whatever you say.’
Christ. Jack held the door open for his mother and closed it behind her. ‘Safe journey. See you soon.’
‘Very soon, darling. Very soon.’
‘Oh, wow.’ Fiona rolled away from him on the futon, stretching like a cat. ‘You are totally wild. Incredible.’
She curled against him again, trapping him beneath one thin, naked leg. Jack, lying on his back, watching the night sweep across the ceiling through the straw-coloured vertical blinds, stroked her hair. It was damp from exertion. Eventually Fiona sat up and reached for a cigarette. She kept a packet of Marlboro beside the futon for post-coital enjoyment only. They both realised a packet was lasting longer and longer these days. ‘Did you enjoy your party, then?’
Jack murmured his assent. He felt as guilty as sin. Fiona blew a plume of smoke into the warm air and rested her head against his shoulder. Nell would still be working. Or maybe starting pull-down. He was actually involved in business with a real showman; one of the people who had fascinated him all his life. He had always harboured a notion, while at school, of running away and becoming a gaff lad if he failed his A-levels. But he hadn’t. And tomorrow morning Bradleys’ fair would be in Henley. Tomorrow morning they’d be building up amongst the traditions of the regatta. Tomorrow morning he’d still be here.
Stealing the Show Page 12
