A starburst of lights and a thunder roll of metallic screaming indicated that the Crash’n’Dash was on its first run of the night. Nell turned up Deep Purple and practically shattered her eardrums.
‘Christ!’ Ross had to shout as he climbed up into the pay-box. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Attracting the punters,’ she yelled back. ‘And why aren’t you on the Brain-Scrambler?’
‘Danny is. He insisted that Claudia be removed from the hoopla and put on the waltzer. Promotion or what? She didn’t seem particularly overjoyed, actually. Anyway, I haven’t come to talk about them – I’ve come to talk about us. And can’t you turn that thing down?’
‘No. What about us?’
Ross leaned over and slid the volume control down to merely deafening. ‘Dad’s just phoned. They’re at Hampton Court. He wanted to come and give the Crash’n’Dash the once-over tonight, so I’ve invited him for a meal.’
‘I don’t want to go out.’
But Ross was on fast forward. ‘I’ve managed to get a table at the Swan. I’ll do the business with Dad, then bring him across, shall I? Meet you about half eight?’
She supposed she could get Terry to take over again. Sometimes that was safer – from a moralistic point of view. He found it difficult to seduce anyone in the pay-box and Nell still felt a little responsible for Karen at home in Oakton.
Anyway, if she went for a meal, she’d be able to sound out Clem on sites for the gallopers and the other Memory Lane stuff. As a Guild member she had a right to apply for sites, but Clem being such a big noise would be able to pull a few strings, grease palms, oil ropes. No, oiling ropes didn’t sound quite right. Maybe it was cogs … Of course, it would probably mean letting Ross know what she’d done – but it was expansion; he couldn’t really object. And after all, Jack had had to tell Fiona far, far worse news. The thought of Jack made her smile.
Ross interpreted the smile as acquiescence. ‘Great. I’ll see you there – and wear something glamorous.’
Nell nodded, not listening. It would be one step forward for the Memory Lane Fair.
The Swan was the oldest pub in Marsh Minster, dating back to the fifteenth century, with a great deal of brass, and beams that looked as though they might have come from Shakespeare’s time rather than the local branch of Wickes. Ordering a gin and tonic, Nell perched on a bar stool to wait for the Percivals, and wondered if they would have to remove the Gavioli from its proscenium before they put it into the centre of the gallopers. She wished Claudia was with her. She’d looked very miserable in the waltzer pay-box, and was playing suicide music by Coldplay.
‘Beautiful.’ Ross kissed her cheek ten minutes later and approved the Fluide dress with his eyes. ‘Didn’t I tell you she looked great, Dad?’
‘She always does.’ Clem, not to be outdone, kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Takes after her mother.’
Christ, Nell thought, I sincerely hope not.
She also thought, rather sadly, how much nicer it had been at the Maybush, sitting on the terrace with Jack, laughing and looking out over the river. Being casual. Being friends.
Ross and Clem made a big show of ordering further drinks, talking about the Brain-Scrambler in glowing terms, and studying the menu. Nell wondered about the gallopers’ centre truck. Had anyone checked the tyres? She certainly hadn’t. And she ought to unroll the tilts next time and make sure they were waterproof. And then there was transport. No one had considered the logistics of how they were actually going to move the gallopers from one gaff to another, had they?
They’d need a truck for the horses, as well as the Gavioli, and the centre of course, and the platforms and rounding boards, not to mention all the other paraphernalia. Once they were on the road it would take a three-truck-drag to cope with the loads and then – she shook her head and swallowed the rest of the gin and tonic – there was the ghost train and the caterpillar too. Neither she nor Jack had given a thought to actually moving. They’d been so wrapped up in just having. She held an HGV licence – but did Jack? Did any of the Downland Trusters? And even if they did, how were they going to finance the purchase of so many specialist vehicles?
‘Jesus!’
Clem and Ross looked up from the vellum-bound menus. ‘Found something you like, Princess?’
Confused, Nell jabbed a finger halfway down her menu. Ross peered at the same place on his own. ‘Not very exciting, sweetheart. Risotto. Still, if that’s what you want. Everyone decided? Great. Let’s freshen up the drinks then, and go through.’
Ross had ordered hors d’oeuvres for everyone, and as they sat back in the velvet chairs waiting for the main course, Nell’s head was swimming. She had hardly any money left in her personal account. It was gradually building up again, of course, but there was nowhere near enough for a small van, let alone a virtual fleet of lorries. She thought briefly of a bank loan. But banks were reluctant to finance fairs at the best of times and the Memory Lane Fair, with no track record and minimal assets, was going to be a non-starter. Borrowing privately? Well, Adele had cleared out the family coffers by paying cash for the Brain-Scrambler. And Ross? Not a chance. Even if he was willing to lend her the money she didn’t want him to have a finger in the Memory Lane pie. He was up to his damned elbows in everything else.
She forked up her rice. Maybe Jack would have some money … God no, of course he wouldn’t. He’d just chucked in his job. And then there was Fiona and the wedding and the pregnancy to finance. She forked up more risotto, looking down at her plate for the first time. A baby squid, minus one small tentacle, looked reproachfully back at her.
She swallowed another mouthful, feeling sick. Ross and Clem were dealing out verbal balance sheets across heaped plates of lamb cutlets. She covered up the accusing calamari eyes with a mound of rice and pushed her dish away.
‘Not hungry, sweetheart?’ Ross paused in the middle of his duchesse potatoes. ‘Would you like something else?’
Nell shook her head. She’d still got some rice to swallow. She may well have got bits of squid in there too. She took a huge gulp of Shiraz, fighting the urge to swill it round her mouth to make sure everything had gone, and wished she’d read the menu.
Clem scraped his plate enthusiastically and mopped up his redcurrant jelly with a slice of bread. ‘So, Princess? How’s the world treating you?’
‘Er – fine.’ Nell draped her napkin over her plate. She could still see those eyes. ‘Very well. The Brain-Scrambler – mean – Crash’n’Dash, is doing better than anyone expected.’
‘Not better than I expected! Nor your ma. Good head on her shoulders, Adele. Did it mainly for your dad’s sake, you know. Take away the worries for the future. Lessen the strain on his old ticker. But of course she did have another motive.’
Ross began to shift uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I don’t think that Nell wants to hear about that, actually –’
‘Yes, I do,’ Nell nodded. ‘What other motive?’
‘Getting you two together, of course!’ Clem roared, splashing Shiraz into all three glasses and waving at the wine waiter for fresh supplies. ‘And it’s worked really well, bless her. I mean – you two were shilly-shallying around – and you, young lady, kept making all sorts of objections to Ross joining you. Now you can’t deny that, can you?’
She couldn’t, Nell agreed, wanting to kill her mother. It was bad enough to think that she’d bought the Brain-Scrambler knowing that Nell didn’t want it – but to buy bloody Ross as a son-in-law as well! It was far too high a price to pay, even for Peter’s peace of mind.
‘So,’ Clem tipped the wine waiter twenty pounds and carried on. ‘Is this what tonight’s all about? You two making your announcement?’
Nell stared across the table at Ross. He was smiling sheepishly, the bastard, and looking pretty shifty. But if he was going to do that, he’d have asked her first, wouldn’t he? And insisted that Vlad-the-Impaler Marcia was also in on the act?
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ she sai
d coldly, wondering whether, if she had the Victorian trifle – which she absolutely loved – for pudding, the memory of the squid’s doleful expression would spoil it for her. ‘In fact, since Ross has joined us we haven’t mentioned getting married. Have we?’
‘I don’t think we have actually, no.’ Ross was studying the pudding menu with an air of feigned innocence. ‘I suppose I just took it for granted that we would, you know …’
Nell took a deep breath. ‘At the moment, I’m happy being single. I’ve seen enough of other people’s children to put me off motherhood. And I’ve never felt the need for a wedding ring.’ She bit her lip – now or never. ‘Anyway, just supposing that Ross and I did marry, what sort of deal would you throw in?’
Both pairs of Percival eyebrows climbed. Clem’s lowered first. ‘Deal? What deal, Princess?’
‘Well, my mother must have got a job lot with the Brain-Scrambler. How would it be if you chucked in a couple of permanent sites with the wedding present cheque?’ A cheque, she thought, of such magnitude that it would buy lorries and trucks.
Ross, who had his finger on Strawberries Romanov, swallowed. ‘We’ll have all the sites we want, Nell. Even if we add a Moon Mission and eventually an Ice-Breaker. And we’ve already talked about splitting to two separate gaffs. Not a problem.’
‘What about splitting to three separate gaffs? What about ground for a set of gallopers – and, say, a ghost train and a caterpillar?’
The Percivals seemed to find this as screamingly funny as a re-run of the Only Fools and Horses Christmas special.
‘Come on, sweetheart.’ Ross clicked his fingers – rather rudely, Nell thought – towards the waiter. ‘We don’t want any of that sort of thing. We’re going forward – and it’s proved to be a success. We don’t want to be taking backward steps now, do we?’
‘I’ve already taken one.’ Nell smiled sweetly at the waiter. ‘I’ll have the Victorian trifle please and –’ she looked expectantly at the Percivals who didn’t answer. ‘Make that three trifles then. Oh, yes – thank you.’ The squid was borne mercifully away.
Obviously miffed at not getting the strawberries, Ross scowled. ‘What have you done, Nell? You haven’t seen some decrepit heap of junk advertised and got some airy-fairy idea about renovation, have you?’
She shook her head. There was a joint Percival exhalation.
‘I’ve already bought it. Or rather, them.’
She couldn’t have had more effect than if she’d leapt on to the table, shimmied out of her Fluide frock, and started dancing the cancan in her Ultimo knickers.
Deciding to capitalise on the moment of silence, she carried on. ‘So, in true Bradley tradition – and just like my mother – I’m prepared to do a deal. I’ll marry Ross if I can be guaranteed sites for my rides. And a cheque big enough to cover transportation.’
‘Over my dead body!’ Ross snatched his trifle from the waiter. ‘What the hell possessed you to do that? What have you bought? And where did you get the money? And, if you’ve bought all this crap, where the hell is it now?’
Clem took the other two bowls of trifle and held them aloft.
‘The money was from my personal account – which is now virtually empty – and the rides are –’ She thought maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. ‘They’re – sort of – being looked after by a friend until such time as we can get on the road.’
‘God Almighty!’ Clem stopped balancing the trifles and slammed them down on to the table. ‘That’s pretty devious, Princess.’
Devious for her, good business sense for her mother, Nell thought icily.
‘And who else knows about this?’ Ross stabbed at his mountain of cream.
‘No one. Well, the people who are helping me with the restoration, of course. But no one in the family. I wasn’t going to say anything until we were up and running but,’ she smiled across the table, ‘as we’re talking dowries –’
‘We’re not!’ Ross got to his feet. ‘And there’s no way that I’ll have anything to do with this nonsense at all. Percivals don’t want to be involved with this sort of thing!’ He made it sound on a par with drug-pushing. ‘Neither will Dad, will you?’
Clem didn’t look quite so sure. ‘Sit down, Ross. Come on, I’m sure we can talk this through. Surely if you and Nell get married, then she can run her side of the business – and there’s good money to be made from nostalgia, you know, look at John Carter – while you run yours?’
‘Not a chance!’ Ross was still standing. ‘I don’t want any part of this.’
Nell watched him stalk out of the dining room and carried on eating her pudding.
‘He’ll calm down.’ Clem scraped Ross’s trifle into his own bowl. ‘He just likes to get his own way. I’ll talk him round. So is that your price, Princess? You’ll marry Ross and make over your Bradley shares to him in return for regular Guild sites for your gallopers and other machines, and some new trucks?’
Nell thought it over. She wished she could ring Jack and ask him what he thought. Would he consider she was selling her soul? Still, he’d probably sell his for the Savage too.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘That’s my price.’
Chapter Twenty-four
The soft drizzle slanted across the slat-blinded windows of the kitchen and gathered in dusty pools on the window-ledge. Jack looked up from the Sits Vac pages of The Independent and watched the day closing in.
‘Just what we could do with,’ Margaret, his ex-secretary said cheerfully, placing a cup of instant and two Chaseys bourbon biscuits in front of him. ‘A nice drop of rain. Always so handy when it rains during the evening, dear, don’t you think? Makes the following morning so fresh.’
She’d popped round on her way home from her new job – ‘ever such nice people, Jack, but not chummy like we used to be’ – to make sure he was OK, to share her first Chaseys staff perk – six packets of bourbons and two of custard creams – and to discuss a wedding present. She didn’t seem wholly at ease with Fiona’s all-white minimalism.
‘Your Fiona doesn’t do much cooking, does she? Not a lot of call for a set of Pyrex bowls, then?’
‘None.’ Jack closed the Sits Vac pages. He was only going through the motions anyway. He had no intention of applying for any of the posts advertised. He’d escaped from one death sentence – he certainly didn’t want to walk into another. He wondered just what sort of job would offer ‘in excess of £20K for the right team player’ and who would ever be bumptious enough to admit to fitting the criterion: ‘must be a people person’. ‘I do all the cooking.’
‘Lucky Fiona. A handsome man who can cook. I wish I’d found one of those when I was younger. And how are all your other plans going?’
Jack, whose plans had been drifting along somewhere between Fox Hollow and the Maybush, was instantly wary. ‘Other plans? How did you know about them? Who told you?’
Margaret adjusted her bifocals. ‘Crikey! You sound just like Magnus Magnusson used to. Your plans, Jack. I mean, even though we don’t work together any more, I still thought I’d be coming … We’re such chums, dear – and I don’t have to speak to your father all day, do I? I’ve bought a new two-piece, and a hat.’
What on earth for? Jack wondered. Why would Margaret be remotely interested in the gallopers’ premiere? His father was hardly likely to be there. And why would she want a hat?
‘I took the liberty of telephoning your Fiona last weekend – did she tell you, dear? – and she says you’ve got the wedding list at Ikea. Available on the Internet. As I’m not happy with that, I do like to purchase in person, dear, I wondered if you wanted a toaster?’
Jack smiled affectionately. ‘I’m sure Fiona would love a toaster. Love it. It’s very kind of you. Thanks.’
Fiona, who still thought that his resignation was a family squabble which would be resolved eventually with a manly handshake, seemed to have rather lost interest in everything except her client portfolio. The wedding had hardly been mentioned since he
left Morlands. One more toaster was neither here nor there.
His mother, on the other hand, had taken the news of the family split predictably badly. After she’d screamed and pleaded, cried and cajoled, she had finally taken to her bed with a bottle of sal volatile and several back issues of Woman’s Weekly. He had heard nothing from his father.
He and Margaret managed to demolish most of the biscuits and half a jar of Nescafe. It would do nicely, Jack thought, in place of an evening meal. Fiona had been away for two days and was due to return at about eight. He wasn’t going to make the mistake of having a meal ready again. If she was hungry they’d eat out.
He saw Margaret off with a kiss on the cheek and watched fondly as she pedalled away down the cul-de-sac wearing the gabardine mackintosh she’d had as long as he’d known her. His father was a fool to have lost her. He’d heard on the grapevine that she’d been replaced by a curvy blonde with minimal keyboard experience and forever legs. He’d also heard that his father had been sending out scouting parties to other building companies, looking for a junior partner to buy into the business. Bill Morland, at least, knew that Jack would not be returning.
Jack closed the door on the damp evening and wondered if Nell had told Ross about the gallopers. He sincerely hoped she hadn’t revealed their location. Anyone with Ross’s clout in the Guild could probably have them blackballed and removed. He missed talking to Nell, and on several occasions had got as far as punching out the first three digits of her telephone number. He had stopped each time, in case she was busy, or with Ross, or any of the million other unknown things that occupied her time away from Fox Hollow.
He knew from The World’s Fair that the Bradley-Percival amalgamation had left Marsh Minster and moved on to a small site in one of the Oxford suburbs. No doubt the Brain-Scrambler would be dragging them in despite the weather. Maybe he’d ring her in the morning and find out when she was next planning to visit the gallopers. She knew more about him – the real him – than anyone else.
Stealing the Show Page 27
