‘Sorry?’
‘Your scent.’ He stood up, smiling, and switched off the wireless. ‘It’s light, flowery, beautiful. All I could smell before was paint, then suddenly I knew you were there.’
He looked tired, Nell thought. Older, somehow. There were shadows beneath his eyes and he’d lost weight. Was he having problems, too? It seemed strange that they shared this huge secret and yet knew so little about each other. She looked at the horse he was working on. The name-scroll against the golden neck was outlined in black, royal blue, and crimson; the lettering was black and gold.
‘Miranda? An ex-girlfriend?’
‘Sadly, no.’ Jack indicated the neighbouring two horses. ‘Unless I also went out with Prospero and Caliban. I took you up on the Lancelot suggestion, and then I wondered why we were letting Tennyson have it all his own way, so I’ve started on Shakespeare. I gather you studied English literature?’
‘Only to A-level.’ Nell ran her fingers over the herd of completed but as yet unnamed horses. ‘Was that a friendly enquiry, or were you sussing out whether I’d been educated at all?’
‘There was never any doubt about that. I just didn’t want you to think I was a complete philistine so I went to the literature section of the library. My education took in maths and science. I’d thought of Pythagorus and Archimedes …’
‘The stuff of my nightmares!’ Nell grinned at him. ‘We had a cow of a maths teacher – and our physics teacher wasn’t much better. Anyway, I would have thought you’d have named them after artists. You must have been to art school, I mean, with all this.’
‘Self-taught.’ Jack dipped the tip of his brush in a miniature pot of vermilion. It looked like blood. ‘Art was not something my father encouraged. Sissy stuff, he always said. I never had art lessons – it was just there and my secret.’
Nell watched him working. He was obviously good at keeping secrets. ‘So when other boys were kicking each other to death on the football field you were daubing in the attic?’
‘God, no. I also used to be the Vinnie Jones of our school eleven.’ He looked up at her again. ‘So you’d be happy with artists then? As names for our horses, I mean? We’ve already got your Vincent, so why not Leonardo, Pablo, Pierre-Auguste, and Camille?’
‘Stop trying to blind me with science – or art. Da Vinci and Picasso I recognise – who the heck are the other two?’
He placed the brush in a jar of white spirit and started swirling it round. ‘Renoir and Pissarro, of course. What sort of naff education did you have?’
Nell poked her tongue out at him and leaned against Caliban, simply enjoying watching him work. So many flatties thought that showmen’s children didn’t go to school at all. She and Danny and Sam had attended school in Fox Hollow in the winter, and had travelling tutors in the summer. At eleven they’d been sent as boarders to a fairly exclusive educational establishment in Hampshire.
‘Well, I chose not to go to university – so did Danny, my older brother. Sam went though. He got a 2.1 in History. Really handy that, on the paratrooper.’
‘I can see that it would be.’
She stroked Caliban’s stiff, varnished mane. ‘A lot of the younger generation of travellers never go back to the fair after college, which is a great pity I think. I’ve got cousins who are lawyers and accountants and one – who we never talk about – who practises private medicine.’
‘The black sheep of the family?’
‘Definitely. His parents are still waiting for him to come back and take over the big wheel.’
She wandered into the far recesses of the shed behind the Gavioli. There wouldn’t be time to play it today. Maybe next week, when they’d built up at Marsh Minster. She was getting as bad as her mother with her Delia treats. The stacked ghost train and caterpillar loomed towards the rafters. The light was dimmer here and she flicked on one of the overhead fluorescents. She blinked in disbelief.
‘Oh! wow! Oh, my God!’
‘I hoped you’d think that.’ Jack was still standing among the horses. ‘Is it what you wanted?’
What she wanted? What she’d dreamed and schemed and prayed for. The rounding boards had been painted, the lettering ornately filigreed in jewel-bright colours on the gilded background, and the sections laid out to dry. When the gallopers were built up the boards would revolve round beneath the tilt and proclaim to the world: ‘Petronella Bradley’s Golden Galloping Horses’ and then, after a gap, ‘The Memory Lane Fair’.
The words blurred and she rubbed quickly at her eyes. She’d never, ever be able to thank him enough. ‘I – I don’t know what to say. It’s incredible – oh, God.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said gruffly, squatting down again and concentrating on Miranda. ‘Just as long as you’re pleased.’
Pleased? There wasn’t a word that would begin to describe how she felt. It was real, now. Not a dream. Reality. Frightening and exciting reality. ‘I’m really going to have to pay you for this. You must be taking so much time away from work. Using up your holidays. And I had no idea just how talented you were. If I’d hired someone I’d have had to pay a fortune. Can you do me invoices, or something? Please?’
Jack was putting the finishing touches to Miranda’s name. He didn’t look up. ‘Not a chance. You’ve given me more than money. And I work for myself, anyway. I don’t have to beg for time off.’ He executed a curlicue with a confident flourish. ‘There is one thing you could do, though.’
Anything, Nell thought, realising again that she knew nothing about him. He’d revealed more in today’s few sentences than at any of their previous meetings. ‘Name it.’
‘I’ve got to be back in Newbury this afternoon. I’ll have to pack up in a minute – but it’s so hot and I’m gagging for a drink. Would you – er – come with me?’
‘Love to. Did you have anywhere in mind?’
Jack shook his head. ‘This is your neck of the woods. Your choice – my shout.’
‘No, then.’ She smiled. ‘The least I can do is buy you a drink for this. Anyway, you’ve got that monstrosity outside so I guess you won’t be able to handle anything more than a very weak shandy. It seems a fairly reasonable price to pay for a dream.’
She watched him cleaning brushes, folding things away carefully in a leather artist’s pouch. He shouldn’t do anything else, she thought. This was as natural to him as breathing.
Jack locked the doors and pocketed the keys. The sun spiralled on the dusty yard. ‘Where are you taking me, then?’
‘The Maybush, at Newbridge. You must have passed it when you came. There are two pubs on either side of the bridge. The Rose Revived is bigger, but I thought the Maybush would be more us.’
‘Yeah, I know where they are. Jump aboard then.’ Jack indicated the Roadster. ‘It’ll only take five minutes.’
‘What? I can’t – not on that! I mean I haven’t got a crash helmet or anything. No, look I’ll drive and meet you there.’
‘You either ride pillion or the deal’s off,’ Jack said cheerfully, dumping his own crash helmet on the Volvo’s bonnet. ‘There. Now we can break the law together.’ He swung one leg over the black leather saddle and kick-started the Norton, yelling above the feral roar, ‘Come on, then. You’ll love it.’
I’ve got to be crazy, Nell thought, climbing unsteadily behind him, and tucking her long legs out of the way. Completely crazy. I’ve got to twenty-nine and I’ve never ridden pillion before. This is absolutely no time to start.
‘Put your arms round my waist, keep your legs away from the exhaust pipe, hang on, and enjoy it.’
The motorbike throbbed and growled, wobbled unsteadily for a second, and then flew out of the yard. It was the most giddy, mad, adrenalin rush Nell had ever experienced. The power from the engine pulsed through her body, the wind was a punching scream in her ears, and her hair tangled behind her like a maenad. She clung to Jack’s waist like a drowning man clutching a solitary rock. His body under the thin sweater was firm and warm beneath her finge
rs, and as she swooped from side to side it was her only bit of stability. She hoped she wasn’t holding too tight but there was no way on earth she was going to let go. The wind sliced through her T-shirt with icy blades. Jack’s hair streaked into her mouth and once she’d got used to the motion, the exhilaration set in. It was like flying: freedom personified; wild, reckless, and disturbingly exciting.
Everything went by in a mangled blur of noise and colour. There were no roads or hedges, no pavements or buildings. There was only the overwhelming thunder of the engine, the speed, and the spiralling intensity of sensation.
As they plunged into the Maybush’s car park, scattering gravel, Nell felt a thud of disappointment. She wanted it to go on for ever. Even after Jack had brought the bike to a halt, she could still hear the roar in her ears, still feel the throb inside her body. Her legs had turned to jelly.
‘Simple, huh?’ He grinned at her, swinging his legs to the ground, and running his fingers through his hair. ‘Do you want any help?’
‘I think I can cope, thanks.’ Nell slithered over the pillion, then staggered backwards. Her face had frozen into a stiff mask while the remainder of her body had liquefied. ‘Ooops. I don’t seem to have quite got my sea legs yet. God, that was brilliant. Can we do it again?’
‘We’re going to have to if you want to get back to your car.’ He watched her trying to sort out the tangles in her hair. ‘I wouldn’t bother. It looks great – and it’ll only get all messed up again on the return journey. OK? Through here?’
Nell bought two ice-cold shandies with trembling fingers, delighted to notice that the lunch-time office escapees were eyeing Jack with open lust. He was stunning, she admitted, in a dark and dangerous sort of way. A complete contrast to Ross’s glowing golden good-looks. And the secretaries weren’t to know he didn’t belong to her, were they? She basked in the borrowing.
They found a table outside on the white-railed deck that overhung the river. It was warmed by the sun and refreshed by the breeze rippling through the overhanging trees.
‘My hands are shaking – but I think there’s still some left in the glass.’ Nell plonked the shandies on to the wooden table. ‘You’re totally crazy.’
Jack downed half his pint in one go. ‘That’s the best way to ride. It becomes far more sensible when you have crash hats and leathers. We’ll probably get arrested on the way back.’
They talked, small talk, desultory conversation, at first; touching on the gallopers and how no one else at Bradleys had been told anything about them, the Downland Trust, the fair, and the recent gaffs. Nell told him the latest about Claudia and Danny, about Terry and Karen, about the concert at Blenheim. Jack spoke of his job, his parents, and how Fiona didn’t seem to mind too much about his continuing with the restoration of the gallopers.
‘Does she know I bought them?’
Jack shook his head. ‘She didn’t ask. I didn’t bother to enlighten her. I don’t think the ownership mattered to her, anyway. What about you? Surely there’s someone in your life who ought to know?’
She shrugged and told him about Ross. All about Ross. He was so easy to talk to. He listened so well.
‘And will you marry him?’
‘God knows. We don’t go in for a lot of living together – not like flatties. It’s marriage or nothing. I’d rather it was nothing. But I’ve got a feeling that everyone else thinks otherwise. It’s such a bloody mess, to be honest.’
‘Fiona wants to get married.’ Jack swirled the remainder of his shandy in the bottom of his glass, staring at the swans in their stately glide beneath them. ‘In fact, Fiona has booked the Register Office and my mother has booked the caterer and the entertainment.’
‘And you – you’re not – um – keen?’
‘It shows, does it?’ Jack drained his glass and stood up. ‘I’ll get the next ones – no, I mean it. Same again?’
‘Yes, please. As long as it’s very weak. Thanks.’
As he walked back into the Maybush the secretaries once again devoured him with their eyes. So – he was going to marry Fiona. She thought it over. Did it bother her? Should it bother her? She came up with yes and no, and felt confused.
He returned with the drinks and they sipped the second one more leisurely. ‘We’ve got a lot in common really, haven’t we? Considering that we’re poles apart?’
‘I suppose we have.’ Nell looked at him across the table. ‘Both being honour bound to carry on our parents’ business. Both being headily in love with the past – and the gallopers. Both about to marry when we’re not really sure that it’s the right thing to do.’
‘I have to – do the right thing, I mean.’ Jack stared away across the river where a single gaily coloured cabin cruiser was causing a tidal wave in its wake and the moorhens were bouncing on the crest. ‘Fiona’s pregnant.’
Nell watched the boat and the moorhens. She drank her shandy. Some of the secretaries got up with a clatter and brushed past their table, very close, leaving a waft of Daisy behind them.
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. I haven’t got my head round it at all yet, to be honest. I’d never thought about children. It – er – wasn’t planned. I’m surprised that Fiona … oh, well.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s my problem.’
‘Shouldn’t you be at home now, then? Planning the wedding? Being supportive.’ God! Nell thought, shocked. She hadn’t meant it to sound that barbed. ‘I mean, if you’re going to get married soon there must be loads to do. Will you still have time for the painting?’
‘It’d take Armageddon to stop me working on the gallopers. But yeah, I suppose there must be plans and lists and things. Fiona and my mother seem to have it all organised though. No one’s actually asked me for any ideas. Anyway, Fiona’s working in London this week. She’s trying to increase her sales portfolio. She’s very ambitious.’
‘So she won’t be giving up her job?’
‘Fiona will never give up anything,’ Jack said bitterly.
Chapter Twenty
‘For goodness sake!’ Nell drummed impatiently on the Volvo’s steering wheel. ‘What on earth is going on?’
There was a tailback on the Haresfoot road coiling into the far distance. Turning down the perennial Brubeck CD, Nell leaned forward and peered through the windscreen. There must have been an accident ahead; there could be no other explanation for jams like this on a mid-week afternoon. The cars in front started to move forward slowly and Nell eased the Volvo up into second. She was already late. She hadn’t left Fox Hollow until after three and knew that Danny would have the fair open by five. It was too much to hope for that the tailback was caused by eager punters.
Eventually turning off the High Street and moving towards the Common, she’d almost reached twenty miles an hour before the traffic ground to a halt once more. A very young policeman, on point duty for possibly the first time, bit his lip and waved his hands in a gesture of despair. Nell leaned from the window. ‘Has there been an accident?’
The policeman looked at her, perked up considerably, and shook his head. ‘Large load through the town centre earlier. Jammed up everything for a while. Sorted now though, miss. You should soon be on your way.’
Oh, goody, Nell thought, cursing lorry drivers who chose to ignore the bypass. She’d hoped her absence wouldn’t have been noticed. She didn’t want to have to answer too many questions.
She needn’t have worried. No one on the fairground took the slightest notice of her arrival simply because there was nobody around. The Common looked like the Marie Celeste. Leaving the Volvo alongside her living wagon, she hurried through the deserted rides.
Where the hell was everyone? Even Mr and Mrs Mac, who always sat outside their living wagon in deck-chairs to watch the world go by when they weren’t working, were missing. She reached Danny’s walnut-and-chrome wagon. The door was open. God! Danny never went anywhere without double-padlocking everything. This had to be serious. Nell had horrific visions of splintered furniture an
d overturned vehicles. She turned the corner.
‘Holy hell!’
It was more serious than she’d even imagined. Ross Percival’s Ferrari and forty-two-foot Sipson living wagon, with its Italian marble and granite work surfaces, bath, and pearlised leather bloody upholstery, was pulled into place as though it had every damn right to be there!
It was too soon. Far too soon. Nell tore round the side of Teddy Pratley’s Skid and slithered to a halt. Things simply got worse.
‘Jesus! What on earth is that?’
She blinked at the enormous articulated lorry pulling into place at the end of the row of machines. They hadn’t extended the ground, had they? No one had mentioned being joined by anyone else. It wasn’t the way things were done. The lessee of the fair, in this case Art Maycroft, advertised any spare ground to let weeks in advance. Vacant sites on Haresfoot Common were like gold-dust.
As far as Nell was aware, all the ground was taken by the usual families, as it always was. Year after year. Ground passed down from father to son; ground, in the Showmen’s Guild, being far more valuable even than the machines. No one parted with it unless they had to. Fairs didn’t, unlike the common flatty misconception, drive aimlessly round the countryside in convoy looking for a nice place to stop. It was a precisely planned and intricate business operation. There were pages of The World’s Fair devoted to the transfer of Guild Rights and sub-letting. It was easier to get into a sealed Masonic lodge. And it would be rarer than snow in August for the council to allow another big machine on to the Common at this late stage. There had to be some mistake.
Everyone was watching the lorry’s manoeuvre. Nell, thanking the Lord for once that she was taller than most, could see easily over their heads. Satisfied that everything was in place, the driver jumped from the cab and disappeared round the back of the massive trailer. The crowd moved closer. There was a hiss of hydraulics as the ride started to unfold. The lorry was a brand-new Foden, sparkling with fresh paint – brilliant blue paint with spiky red letters underlined with a lot of very yellow stars …
Stealing the Show Page 22
