Stealing the Show

by Christina Jones

  The enormity of the deception had almost ruined her holiday. Adele had woken in various vast American hotel rooms, feeling the drowsy euphoria of early morning; thinking of the joys of the day ahead; lovingly watching Peter still sleeping; and then the realisation and the guilt had kicked in with twin stiletto stabs.

  Each morning she’d groaned and promised herself that this would be the day she’d come clean and confess her sins. But of course, she hadn’t. Like Scarlett O’Hara, a confession tomorrow had seemed preferable to a confrontation today.

  And now, back in England, and with the showman’s grapevine tingling with gossip, she knew it would only be a matter of time before Peter found out, and then all hell would break loose. Why she hadn’t been up-front straight away, she couldn’t imagine. Now, she’d have to admit to weeks of deception.

  Then there were Claudia and Danny. That row at Blenheim had been appalling. And Claudia and Sam. She still wasn’t convinced that that little episode was as innocent as they’d made out. No, she thought, poring once more over Delia’s tempting pages, the thought of whisking up a confessional supper for Peter would be a piece of cake compared with having to deal with the rest of her family.

  ‘Look what I’ve got!’ Peter swung jauntily into the kitchen. ‘Mr Grewal had a couple of back issues! Lucky, eh?’

  Adele put Priscilla down and stared at the World’s Fairs in horror. Short of wrenching them from his grasp and ripping them to pieces there was very little she could do. ‘How kind of him – especially after what you said about his paper-boy.’

  Peter was leafing through the pages. ‘I know. I gave the lad some dollar bills to make up. Mr Grewal said he couldn’t imagine what had happened because, although we’d cancelled all the other papers, Dick Hart-Radstock said he’d quite like a glimpse through The World’s Fair when he and Cynthia came in to feed the cat, so I didn’t cancel it and – Would you believe it!’

  Adele gulped and clutched Delia to her bosom. ‘How do you fancy some good home cooking tonight? I thought that we’d go for something really nostalgic –’

  Peter tightened his grip on The World’s Fair. ‘Good God!’

  ‘Delia says here that -’

  ‘No! This can’t be right!’ The pages crackled in indignation.

  ‘– it’s really quite fashionable again now to have prawn cocktail and steak and kidney pudding and even –’

  Peter shook his head. ‘Bugger me!’

  ‘ – Black Forest gâteau. So, I thought that rather than being clever with sun-dried tomatoes and lime marinade and corn-fed chicken, if I use low-fat substitutes because of your cholesterol level, we –’

  ‘Adele!’ Peter glared at her over the newsprint. ‘You’ll never guess what it says here!’

  Adele closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘What?’

  ‘The Council powers-that-be in Thame are still insisting that there should be no big rides alongside the Town Hall now that it’s been tarted up! Thame Street Fair’s a bloody Charter! Been a bloody Charter since Norman times! And now they’ve put in prissy paving blocks and tubs of flowers and say there’s no place for the fair! And the townspeople want the fair, for God’s sake! And – they’re meeting the Guild to discuss it! Discuss! If I were Clem I’d tell ’em –’

  Adele exhaled with relief. She had every sympathy with the showmen who visited Thame; every sympathy with the townspeople who wanted their traditional fair and not a cobbled precinct – but she thanked God that they had stolen the headlines.

  ‘Shame … I hope they sort it out. Now, about tonight’s dinner …’

  Adele looked round her kitchen and beamed. There had been nothing incriminating in the back issues of The World’s Fair. The washing machine was humming gently with the last load of holiday clothes. Delia had come up trumps and the scents wafting through Graceland’s panelled rooms would have tempted even the most ardent weight-watcher. Peter was wrestling with the corkscrew. Everything was going to be all right.

  Tomorrow, when she’d done the deed and Peter knew about the Crash’n’Dash, they’d drive up to Oxford and he could see it in all its glory. She’d be able to face Nell then, too. And she’d brought presents back from America – three the same, as she always did so that none of the children felt more or less favoured. She was sure that they’d be delighted with the Elvis and Priscilla commemorative wedding dolls that she’d found in that little chapel in Las Vegas. With Elvis in his GI uniform and Priscilla in a swathe of white net and a bouffant hair-do, they lit up when activated by sound waves and broke into a rather nasal version of ‘Suspicious Minds’. Adele couldn’t help thinking that maybe the manufacturers might have been a touch more sensitive with the choice of tune.

  ‘Smells grand.’ Peter eased the cork from the Rioja. ‘Nothing beats a bit of steak and kidney pud. And you,’ he beamed across the kitchen, ‘look wonderful. That outfit suits you a treat.’

  Adele had bought her gold Capri pants and fringed tunic in Tennessee and hoped they didn’t seem a little beachish for English evening wear. She hugged him. ‘Come on then – into the dining room – and keep your eyes closed. No, no peeking. It’s a secret. You gave me that lovely holiday, and this is my way of saying thank-you.’

  Peter closed his eyes obediently. He’d been wine-tasting for most of the afternoon, and with his heart pills plus something a boy with dreadlocks had given him at the airport to counteract the jet lag, had become increasingly laid-back.

  ‘Promise to keep your eyes shut.’ Adele linked her arm through Peter’s and led him across the hall. ‘There! Now you can look!’

  Peter gazed open-mouthed at the dining table. Adele had bought an entire Presley dinner service in Memphis, and some tiny gold goblets engraved with the words of all the greatest hits in the Graceland Gift Shop. The napkins – linen and showing dear Elvis in the latter stages of his life, white jump suit, rhinestones, and more than a hint of corpulence – had come from Nashville. She’d even put Elvis candles in the silver candelabra, although she wasn’t too sure that these were going to be a success. They seemed to have burned right down to his sideboards in a matter of minutes.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Peter looked at her with the sleepy eyes that were so like Nell’s. ‘I think you’re a star.’

  It was all going very well. Adele hadn’t served prawn cocktails since she’d discovered deep-fried brie, and the steak and kidney had tasted every bit as good as it smelt. Peter had lurched his way into the kitchen for the pudding. She still hadn’t found exactly the right moment to mention the Crash’n’Dash.

  ‘Wow!’ Peter wobbled back with the gateau: layer upon layer of Delia’s finest sponge soaked in kirsch, oozing with luscious black cherries and awash with cream. ‘This is some pud! We didn’t have anything like this while we were away. It’s great to be home.’

  Adele dished up across Elvis’s guttering-wax remains and the re-mix version of ‘King Creole’. ‘Extra cream? It’s only single … should be OK for the arteries. Peter, there’s something I’ve got to tell you –’

  A blast of ‘Love Me Tender’ from the doorbell clashed unpleasantly with the opening bars of ‘All Shook Up’. Adele closed her eyes. Not now, please. Not when she was just about to grasp the nettle.

  ‘Probably someone complaining about the noise.’ Peter dropped his cake fork with a clatter and pushed back his chair. ‘I bet the Finbows never did much entertaining when this was Sunny Gables. Of course, they couldn’t, not with Mr Finbow’s trouble. I’ll tell ’em we’re sorry. Won’t be long.’ He managed to exit the dining room without falling over anything.

  Adele refilled the goblets and rehearsed her confession. Priscilla had taken advantage of the open door and was weaving sinuously around the table legs. Not strangers then, Adele thought. Maybe it was the Hart-Radstocks. She hoped they wouldn’t stay long.

  ‘We’ve got visitors!’ Peter shouted from the hall. ‘I’ve told ’em that they’ve missed the best bit – but we’ve still got some p
udding left.’

  He ushered Nell and Ross into the dining room.

  Completely wrong-footed, Adele dived beneath the damask and grabbed Priscilla. ‘Oh – er – hello, you two. Um – if you’ll just excuse me….’ She glared at the purring Priscilla. ‘Naughty cat! Not in the dining room! Come along!’ She hurtled towards the doorway. ‘Lovely to see you both. Dad’ll pour you a drink and I – um – won’t be a moment.’

  She bolted across the hall, Priscilla struggling beneath her armpit, into the kitchen. ‘Oh, my God!’

  She hadn’t heard Nell following her.

  ‘Exactly, Mother.’ Nell closed the kitchen door behind her. ‘I think you and I need to have a little talk, don’t you?’

  It was, Adele thought afterwards, one of the most embarrassing half-hours of her life. Nell gave no quarter. Priscilla, ever the opportunist, leapt on to the Saxon Granite work surface and ate the leftovers.

  ‘He still doesn’t know, does he?’ Nell had calmed down a bit. ‘Poor Dad. Still, Ross has possibly saved you the bother of an explanation by now.’

  Adele shuddered. Would that be good or bad?

  ‘What exactly did you intend to tell him?’ Nell drummed her fingers on the table. ‘About the finance in particular – and the whole thing in general?’

  ‘As little as possible,’ Adele was grateful that Nell could at least see the Crash’n’Dash’s benefits. ‘But I suppose now it’ll have to be the whole truth.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That I bought the Crash’n’Dash to further the family business, to make your father’s retirement a long and peaceful one, and to help your partnership – both professional and personal – with Ross Percival.’

  Nell shook her head but she was, Adele noticed with some relief, smiling. A proper smile that reached her eyes. Nell looked beautiful again tonight. There wasn’t quite the inner glow that she’d noticed at Blenheim, but she’d done something to her eyes – more mascara or was it dye? – and her hair looked stunning. And she was with Ross. Adele allowed herself a sneak at her daughter’s fingers. Damn it. They were still ringless. She had hoped that Nell would be wearing a gull’s-egg diamond by now.

  Nell stopped drumming and leaned against the table. ‘And the money? Were you going to tell him how you paid for it?’

  ‘Only if I had to. You know – just my little nest egg. Clever investments. Fudge a bit …’

  Adele had never been so relieved as when separate taxation was introduced. True, she’d never declared all her savings, but it had been extremely difficult not to let Peter know just how much she had salted away for the children’s future. Once she’d been responsible for her own tax returns, the accountant had been a gem. She was pretty sure Peter wouldn’t ask too many probing questions about the money, anyway. He had some pretty hefty fiscal secrets of his own.

  ‘And – um – everything else?’ Adele thought she ought to make coffee and reached for the percolator. ‘You and Ross? Being together? Is that OK?’

  Nell didn’t answer immediately. She was rummaging through the dresser for the coffee set. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I cursed you to hell to start with, Mum. I swore I’d never forgive you.’ She placed the pile of tiny cups and saucers on the table and sighed. ‘As it is, you’ve indirectly helped me out.’

  Thank God she had done something right, Adele thought, decanting the demerara. She would have to observe them together, of course, to see if things had improved since Blenheim. But maybe just being in close proximity had made them realise what she’d known all along – that they were a match made in Heaven. She felt fairly jaunty as the percolator glugged and wondered if it would be too soon to get together with Marcia Percival over the wedding outfits.

  But all was not well in the dining room. As Adele wheeled in the trolley, Ross was leafing through the photographs they’d taken in Kentucky and Peter was snapping his fingers in time with ‘The Girl of My Best Friend’.

  Adele glanced at her husband. Still calm. Maybe, she thought, knowing him so well, dangerously so?

  Nell and Ross exchanged some intricate eye-talk across the table, Adele noticed. Not all of it friendly. She clattered out the cups and made a big show of cream and sugar.

  Peter still sat quietly, apparently stone-cold sober, then leaned forward. ‘So you’ve got something to tell me?’

  ‘Later,’ Adele said.

  ‘Ross has obviously already done it.’ Nell spoke at the same time.

  Peter poured rather shaky coffee for everyone. ‘It seems as though my womenfolk are out to corner the travelling market without the courtesy of informing me.’ He looked from Adele to Nell. ‘Here’s to the two best-kept secrets in the Showmen’s Guild. You were, I suppose, going to break it to me some time?’

  Adele could sense undercurrents. Naturally, she had expected Peter to be shocked, but there was real bitterness in his voice. Not too clever considering his heart condition. And two secrets? What had she forgotten?

  ‘Peter, look, I wanted to tell you

  ‘It just slipped your mind, did it? Acquiring a Jessons Super-Ride without my knowledge? And I suppose you also knew that Nell has purchased a set of gallopers and some other preservation machines –’

  Adele blinked in disbelief. ‘Nell?’

  Nell was fidgeting and didn’t look at her parents. She did, however, hurl an ‘I’m going to kill you’ glare at Ross.

  ‘Gallopers?’ Adele raised her voice above ‘Old Shep’. She usually fast-forwarded that one because it made her cry. ‘You mean, while I was trying to push Bradleys into the next century, Nell has dragged them back into the last?’

  ‘That about sums it up, yes.’ Ross was unwrapping After Eights at the speed of light. ‘She’s also bought a ghost train and a caterpillar.’

  ‘What for? What with?’ Adele’s words tumbled together in indignation. ‘Did Danny and Sam –’

  ‘They knew nothing about it. It came as a bit of a shock to them, too.’ Ross started to build little houses with the chocolates. ‘I’m sure, now that everything is out in the open, that Nell won’t mind me telling you that she has used all her personal savings to buy them –’

  Nell seemed to mind very much indeed. Adele blinked furiously. She and Nell – playing the same game. Secretly spending their entire fortunes, and going in completely opposite directions. She was fairly confident that Peter would eventually accept the addition of the Crash’n’Dash – however devious its purchase – but what on earth did Nell want with a set of gallopers?

  ‘Ross and I will be getting married.’ Nell looked mutinously from Adele to Peter. ‘At the end of the season. The Bradley-Percival partnership which you so carefully manoeuvred, Mother, will be able to travel in two or three directions. You’ll have achieved your aims. All of them. Dad’s happy and stress-free retirement. Bradleys’ expansion and profitability – not to mention a wedding. I hope you’re happy?’

  Adele opened her mouth to issue congratulations, then looked at the expressions of the participants. Ross demolished his After Eight skyscraper in a squish of peppermint cream. For someone who had been pursuing Nell for years, he certainly didn’t seem too overjoyed. Nell looked as though she had just had root canal treatment.

  Adele, who had been waiting for this news for as long as she could remember, suddenly felt deflated. Something wasn’t right. Maybe she was still fuddled after the flight. Everything would be clearer in the morning.

  She stretched her smile to a hundred watts and leaned towards Ross. ‘So you don’t mind this daughter of mine carrying on with her notion of old-fashioned rides?’

  ‘Why should I? Nell will do whatever she wants. Anyway, the gallopers are nothing at all to do with me. You’d better speak to my father if you want any further information. He and Nell have come to an arrangement.’

  Adele shook her head. What arrangement? Clem Percival surely wouldn’t want to be involved with old machines, would he? Not now he owned Jessons? Peter, who was still looking extremely angry and would – Ad
ele knew – be blasting her ears off the minute the visitors had gone, splashed the remains of several wine bottles into the goblets. Elvis seemed to have got stuck on ‘Crying in the Chapel’.

  Why wasn’t anyone smiling? Adele sat down again. This wasn’t how she’d planned Nell and Ross’s engagement. There should be group hugs and Krug corks and laughter.

  Nell’s hands were shaking as she lifted her goblet. She raised it towards her parents in a gesture of defiance. ‘I think we can still have a toast, don’t you? After all, if it hadn’t been for Mum none of this would have happened. What shall we drink to? Your happy retirement? My engagement? The overnight trebling of Bradleys?’ She looked across the table at Ross. ‘Or can you think of anything else?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘I can’t think of anything else at all.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The Bradley-Percival amalgamation moved on to Monkton Regis three days after the Graceland invasion. Anything that happened now, after the Highcliffe debacle, Nell thought as she scrubbed vigorously at a stubborn wodge of chewing gum barnacled to the dodgems’ pay-box, could only be an improvement. In retrospect, the astounded expressions, the stuttered excuses, the revealed double-dealings, had been quite amusing. Of course, it had been unfortunate that she and Ross had gatecrashed one of her mother’s Guild-famous buttering-up sessions, but maybe now that there were no more skeletons to clatter from the closet, life might just settle down.

  Ross had been reluctant to go to Highcliffe that night, but she’d insisted that he had to; that they had to bring everything out into the open. Her parents were back in the country and there could be no more secrets. She grinned to herself. Even Ross – who had been uncharacteristically po-faced throughout the whole affair – had to admit, as they whizzed back to Oxford in the Ferrari, that it had been surreal. Nell reckoned it had been far more than that. The evening had quite quickly disintegrated into farce: it would only have taken the four of them to go crashing in and out of Graceland’s multitude of oak-panelled doors to have put it right up there with Brian Rix’s best. And the memory of the expression on Ross’s face when Adele handed him the Elvis wedding dolls would lift her depression for years.