And, she thought, gouging at the welded lump with no regard at all for her nail varnish, everyone had calmed down in the end. Once he’d recovered from the shock of Bradleys’ sudden expansion, her father sounded quite excited, especially when Ross started to explain the cash benefits of both the new acquisitions and the proposed split.
No doubt her mother and father would have had some harsh words over the deceit of it all, but she knew from years of experience that in any parental row her mother would emerge victorious. And as for her mother – well, to be honest, Adele had played a clever hand, Nell thought with grudging admiration. She’d diffused the situation by disappearing to America and letting the Brain-Scrambler speak for itself. Her own initial fury had somewhat diminished by the time they’d had the confrontation, which was probably what her mother had hoped for all along.
The sun was filtering through misty grey clouds, promising an end to the last few days of wet weather. They were making more money than ever before; Ross had stopped trying to lure her into his marble and pearl leather palace – saying that he was more than happy to wait until after the wedding – and Claudia and Danny seemed to be making a real go of their marriage. Well, Claudia didn’t seem to have any more bruises; there had been no late-night shouting matches; Danny had stopped criticising her short hair, and she’d started wearing mascara again. It might not be Happy Ever After, but at least it wasn’t Imminent Divorce.
There were only a couple of things that marred Nell’s total happiness – and one of them she could do nothing about. OK, so she still wasn’t delirious with the towering presence of the Crash’n’Dash, but as everyone else was jubilant it would probably be churlish to keep saying so. And once the restoration was finished she’d be travelling on her own with the gallopers a lot of the time, with the aid of the Downland Trusters, of course, so she wouldn’t have to put up with it for much longer.
Clem Percival had been an angel over potential steam-fair sites for her nostalgia machines. And, true to his word, he’d got straight on to his friendly truck dealership to organise transport for the gallopers. Three Seddon-Atkinson lorries were being fitted out by Eckstrucs as specialist wagons. He’d even gone to auction and bought a couple of second-hand Fodens and a Scammell for the ghost train and caterpillar, and was having the whole lot liveried in maroon and gold with the legend ‘The Memory Lane Fair’. These were to be his and Marcia’s main wedding gift, and his only stipulation was that if she refused to have Percival emblazoned across them, he wouldn’t pay for Bradley. They’d settled on the trucks staying nameless, and Nell, who had no intention of dropping her maiden name once she and Ross were married, had reckoned she could bribe Jack to add ‘Petronella Bradley’ at some later date.
Nell dislodged the chewing gum at last and straightened up. Of course, to accomplish all this she had to marry Ross. So? She’d achieved more or less everything else that she wanted, hadn’t she? She couldn’t have it all. She would play her part, she told herself every night, and make Ross a good wife and an excellent business partner. She would really try to be pleasant first thing in the morning. She might even, one day, love him.
Fortunately, after his temper tantrum in the Swan, Ross hadn’t seemed remotely interested in her machines, so she hadn’t needed to tell him where they were being stored. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, of course. She still hadn’t actually told anyone. Foolish as it may seem, she smiled self-indulgently as she wiped away greasy smears from the dodgems’ red and yellow pillars with a J-cloth, Fox Hollow didn’t seem to have anything to do with this life. It belonged to the other Nell Bradley – and to Jack. To talking and listening and sharing dreams. To mad dashes through the countryside on the back of the Roadster. To laughing and to drinks beside the river at the Maybush.
She climbed on to the dodgem track, checking every inch, making sure it was free of debris. Terry and Mick were testing the cars. Terry, who still had his Rudy Yarrow fan club from Haresfoot turning up sporadically, received a letter from Karen every day. He rushed off to the post office each morning and disappeared into the Beast Wagon to read them. ‘Like, real letters are more romantic than texts an’ that,’ he’d beamed in explanation. ‘Me an’ Karen are dead romantic.’
Claudia and Nell had looked at each other and felt positively ancient.
The fair had moved from Oxford the previous day and they weren’t due to open until this evening. Ross was off somewhere with Danny – and Nell was going to Fox Hollow this afternoon. She hoped Jack would be there. She wanted to know how his search for restoration painting work was going – and she couldn’t wait to tell him about Clem’s gift of the transport. She didn’t, she realised with a sharp solar plexus punch, want to hear anything about Fiona, the wedding, or the baby. Which was pretty silly when she’d be marrying Ross merely months after Jack and Fiona’s nuptials. When she was old, she decided, and Petronella Bradley’s Memory Lane Fair had gone down in the annals of showland history, she’d bore her grandchildren rigid with the story.
Grandchildren? To have grandchildren she’d have to be a mother first. Motherhood, as she’d told Clem, had never figured highly on her list of must-dos. Ross, of course, would expect her to produce at least one heir to the Percival dynasty. Nell wrinkled her nose and tried to stop her thoughts wandering along that path. Babies, she liked. Children – when they were yours – were probably a whole lot more acceptable than the squabbling, squalling, badly behaved brats she watched every hour of her working day. Creating a baby with the right man was possibly the most wondrously happy thing any woman could do. It was just a shame that Ross wasn’t the right man …
The yard at Fox Hollow looked like Asda’s car park on a busy Friday evening. There were vehicles of all descriptions pulled skew-whiff up against the hedges. The organ had been wheeled out and was standing, still sadly truncated, alone in a corner. A set of ramps had been constructed, and the centre truck was anchored in place. Jack’s intricately decorated rounding boards, the long yellow-and-red lighting spars, and the scarlet swifts that supported the tilt, were stacked outside the double doors. The twisted brass rods, throwing off prisms, were leaning like giant sticks of barley sugar against the beautifully painted, gilded, and Tudor-rosed platforms. And the horses, with Petronella leading the battle charge, were galloping on the spot in a riot of glossy colour.
The Downland Trusters had finished their restoration.
With a surge of joy, Nell tore inside. The Jims, Bobs, and Bens were all busily carrying things from the back of the shed out into the sunshine – looking like the Munchkin workforce in the Emerald City, Nell thought, only much larger, of course – and greeted her with smiles of welcome. Percy and Dennis were having a deep discussion in front of the music-book cupboard. She couldn’t see Harry or Fred. And there was no sign of Jack. Had the Roadster been outside? Nell hadn’t noticed it in the scrum of cars. Surely he’d be here? It was obviously an auspicious day. Her euphoria was diluted by a splash of disappointment.
Percy spotted her, raised his hand in greeting, and bustled across. ‘You must be on radar, my dear. We were going to give you a bell to see if you could make it. We’re timing ourselves for a build-up.’
‘And,’ Dennis had joined him, ‘we’re going to need another strong pair of arms. How fit are you feeling? OK for lifting the platforms?’
‘Not even a hoof.’ Nell teased. ‘I’ll just stand on the sidelines, be helpless and feminine, and flutter at your manly strength. Anyway I’m hardly dressed for work, am I?’ She’d worn the emerald green, silk shorts-suit that she had bought in Marsh Minster because – well, because it was a nice day and because she knew it looked good. Those, she told herself firmly, were the only reasons. ‘If I’d known you were going to have me grafting I’d have stuck to jeans.’
‘We’re bloody glad you didn’t,’ Percy winked. ‘You look good enough to eat. Don’t she, Den?’
Den affirmed this statement with a sort of guttural ‘Ar’. Nell blushed. She didn’t want to as
k them about Jack. ‘It’s just a dry-run build-up, is it? Not the organ or a generator or anything?’
They shook their heads. Nell was relieved. There was no way she’d allow them to have a full run-through if Jack wasn’t there. He’d done more than any of them. Far more than she had. And they’d promised themselves, hadn’t they, that they’d play ‘Paree’ together on that first occasion.
She was itching to tell them of her deal with Clem Percival, to let them know that they’d soon be on the road – with authorised gaffs – and some really swish transport courtesy of Eckstrucs. But again, she wanted to tell Jack first. Funny, fanciful ideas were sneaking into her head and she pushed them out. Quickly.
‘Seriously, is there anything I can do?’
‘Hold the stopwatch,’ Dennis grinned. ‘We’ve been to Pinkneys Green and timed the Carter’s lot. We’re aiming to beat ’em.’
‘And I’m sure you will. So, I suppose I’m relegated to tea boy, am I?’
‘Some tea boy!’ Dennis and Percy were still looking at her as though they’d just realised that she was a woman. Perhaps the shorts suit was a little blatant for Fox Hollow and the Downland Trusters. They nodded in unison. ‘You’ve been bloody brilliant, Nell. Bloody brilliant. We couldn’t have done any of this without you. And yeah, tea would be grand. Are you up to making twenty-odd cups?’
‘Easy peasy,’ Nell said, heading towards the small kitchen which her grandfather had built in a corner of the shed to prevent his wintering gaff lads escaping into town for tea breaks. ‘Twenty cups of tea I can do standing on my head – not that I’m going to, so don’t hold your breath. After feeding my family and the gaff lads at three in the morning for most of my life, a tea urn holds no threats.’
She was still grinning as she pushed her way into the kitchen and manhandled the water heater which looked as though George Stephenson had used it as a prototype from the stone sink to the bench. There was a cupboard full of mismatched mugs, several trays nicked from pub beer gardens, a collection of tarnished spoons, and her mother’s appallingly plum-coloured Tupperware which contained sugar, tea, and coffee.
‘Bugger.’ Nell pulled open the fridge. There wouldn’t be any milk. They’d have to drink it black. ‘Jesus!’
The fridge was stocked, not only, with milk, but with orange juice, eggs, bacon, butter, a mass of salad and cold meats, half a trifle, and at least two dozen bottles of Beck’s. The Downland Trusters had obviously made themselves at home.
Having made the tea and loaded milk and sugar on to the trays, she carried them into the shed. Everyone was outside now, heaving and sweating the numbered swifts into place from the top of the centre, swarming up and down ladders, shouting, thoroughly enjoying themselves.
‘Tea’s up!’
Two dozen faces grinned cheerfully at her and she felt a shiver of exhilaration. If only this was what it could always be like. Out on the road, building up the gallopers – not simply because it was a business, but because everyone loved it just as much as she did.
‘We’re not going to be fixing the lights or anything,’ Dennis told her, wiping a grimy hand across his sweating face. ‘Just making sure that everything is as it should be. Any idea when we’ll be making our debut?’
‘September, definitely.’ Nell knew she was searching the faces for Jack and stopped. There were several end-of-season steam rallies, Clem had said, who would welcome her with open arms once he’d approached the lessees. But Jack was getting married in September. ‘I’m not sure when exactly. But will you all be able to make it? I mean, the pay will be minimal to start with no doubt and –’
‘We don’t want paying.’ Dennis had been joined by some of the other Trusters, all reaching out grateful oily hands for the steaming mugs. ‘We’ll do it for nothing. That’s like saying we should be paid for breathing. Anyway, you’ll have to fork out a fair bit for the sites, then there’s transport and –’
‘I’ll still pay you. You’ll get travelling expenses and we’ll just divvy-up the takings,’ Nell interrupted him. She didn’t want to discuss any of this. Not yet. ‘I won’t be able to take you on as proper gaff lads anyway, because you all have your own lives to lead – but we’ll have to come to some arrangement.’
They grinned happily and still clutching their mugs, swarmed back to work.
Deciding that the temptation of an ice-cold Beck’s was far more alluring than strong tea from a chipped mug, Nell headed back to the kitchen. She opened the bottle and looked around for a glass. Stupid. The Trusters wouldn’t bother with glasses – and there was no one to watch her swigging from the bottle, was there? Ross would have had a fit. He had some really red-necked notions sometimes.
Enjoying the coolness of the beer on her dry throat, she walked to the back of the shed to make sure that the ghost train and caterpillar were still anchored securely. They’d been practically hidden beneath the gallopers ever since their arrival, and she’d hate to see them damaged at this late stage in the Memory Lane Fair’s development. She needn’t have worried, of course. The Trusters had secured them back against the wall. She was dealing with professionals in love here, she told herself, and any qualms she might have were totally unnecessary. There was some packing or something that seemed to have worked loose. She bent down to have a closer look.
‘What the –?’
She peered at the odd assortment of clothes and blankets piled in the musty darkness between the two rides. Had they got a tramp at Fox Hollow? They quite often did during the winter, and she and Claudia and Mrs Mac always made sure that they had at least one hot meal a day and access to the shed’s kitchen and outside lavatory – but they’d never had any in the summer before.
‘Good God!’
If it was a tramp it was a pretty stylish one. As well as a duvet and pillows, there was a collapsible bed, a razor, and a whole heap of Yves St Laurent toiletries. Nell peered more closely. Three pairs of black jeans were folded on top of several T-shirts, and a bundle of recently washed and very expensive black jersey underpants and black silk socks lay in a tangle of clean towels. She could smell the faint linseed oil, the cologne, the petrol …
‘Dennis said you were in here – it’s going well, isn’t it?’
‘Oh – er – hi.’ She spun round to see Jack pulling off his crash helmet, shaking his black hair free. In some confusion, she waved the Beck’s bottle towards the bedding. ‘This is definitely above and beyond the call of duty. Still, you’ll be able to go home now you’ve finished, won’t you? Yes, the gallopers look incredible – you’ve worked so hard. I’m really glad you’re here – I’ve got so much to tell you.’
‘Obviously.’ He smiled. ‘Tell you what. I’ll get a bottle and join you. Do you want another?’
‘No. I’m driving. Shouldn’t we be outside, building up, timing them?’
‘Probably.’ Jack shrugged out of the leather jacket and dropped it beside the crash helmet on the makeshift bed. ‘But it’s only a dry run. I’d’ve phoned you if I thought it was going to be the real thing. It wouldn’t have been right without you. You look great, by the way – although it’s hardly suitable for the Roadster. I loved that outfit the last time I saw it.’
She watched him walk into the kitchen. When on earth had he seen it?
‘You wore it on television,’ Jack returned, interpreting her puzzled frown and taking a much-needed swig of beer. ‘I thought you and Claudia looked incredible. I ogled you unashamedly. Didn’t listen to a word Andy Craig was saying. ‘So,’ he sank down on the edge of the bed and patted the duvet, ‘sit down and tell me your news.’
Nell eyed both Jack and the bed with some suspicion. She didn’t think she really wanted to perch chummily on it, beside him, and chatter like friends. Not any more. God – this was ridiculous!
She sat as far away from him as possible, trying and failing miserably to arrange her legs with some degree of decency. He laughed at her attempts. ‘No point, I’ve seen most of them already. And why you’d want to try a
nd hide them is totally beyond me.’
‘I hate them,’ she said. ‘I hate being so tall – and I hate every one of my damn freckles. I’d love to be small and cute and blonde.’
Jack didn’t speak. Just smiled. It was far more disturbing than words.
Outside, through the open doors, she could see the Downland Trusters still heaving the platforms across the yard. Percy and Dennis, having assumed their natural roles as foremen, were barking orders as expertly as any traveller. This life – this one – was the real one. And before long it would be the only one. Except, of course, that the Trusters, and Jack, were only playing. They were still flatties enjoying a fantasy. She would be married to Ross, and Jack would be married to Fiona and be a father before long. He’d have found a proper job and have responsibilities. He wouldn’t be able to devote all his time to the gallopers …
‘So,’ he sliced into her thoughts, ‘what’s your news?’
She told him about the promised gaffs, about the Eckstrucs wagons, about the livery, her words tumbling over each other in her excitement. ‘And if you could just pass your Class I before we hit the road, it’d be great.’ She placed her empty Beck’s bottle on the dusty floor. ‘What do you reckon? Could you do it?’
‘Why not?’ Jack squinted at her through the green glass of his bottle. ‘I haven’t got anything else to do now that the painting’s finished. I can actually drive a small lorry – I got a Class II four years ago when Dad thought it might be useful on the sites. So, one step up shouldn’t be that difficult. How long does the course take?’
Stealing the Show Page 30
