Stealing the Show

by Christina Jones

  The Volvo was in the yard. Jack, trying not to grin too broadly, parked the Roadster beside it and rushed inside. Nell was perched on the pile of galloper tilts, her mobile phone tucked beneath her chin, a laptop computer beside her. She was wearing denim shorts and a pale blue crop-top, and her hair was piled into a silky, straggly bundle on top of her head. She was sitting with her legs crossed beneath her, and the scorching heat had increased her freckle ratio. She hadn’t heard him arrive, and Jack luxuriated in simply looking at her. Ross Percival, he decided, was the luckiest man on earth.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she grinned in welcome, placing her hand over the phone. ‘Won’t be a sec. How did you get on?’

  ‘Celebrations at the Maybush are now in order.’ He waved the certificate at her. ‘No problem at all.’

  ‘Brilliant. Congratulations. You are clever. Not that I doubted you for a moment, of course.’ Her eyes gleamed below the heavy fringe. ‘Oh, hang on –’

  She was talking rapidly, tapping things into the computer with her free hand, her hair escaping down her neck in silky, red-gold tendrils. Jack wanted to stroke the strands back into place and had to shove his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Fine.’ Nell snapped off the phone, and uncurling herself, walked towards him. ‘God, I’ve got so much to tell you. But first let me see the hard copy evidence of your brilliance.’

  He waved the pass certificate above his head, drowning in her evocative floral scent. Almost as tall as him, she reached up and grabbed it. Her nearness made him ache.

  ‘There is of course one huge drawback now.’ She looked at him, the light in her eyes momentarily dimmed. ‘You can drive the lorries – but the lorries no longer exist.’

  ‘What? Oh, don’t say bloody Percival the Elder has pulled the plug at the last minute? The bastard! Christ, Nell – what’s happened?’

  ‘About a lifetime of things. Do you reckon the Maybush can cope with a saga?’

  ‘No doubt about it.’ He reached beneath his pile of bedding. ‘I bought you a present last week, in anticipation of this occasion –’ He handed her a brand new black crash helmet.

  Nell moved it round in her hands. ‘Jack Morland, you are in serious danger of becoming boring. This is a very grown-up piece of kit. And just when I’d got used to being a reckless law breaker, too.’

  ‘I just thought we should be legal, especially now we’re a going concern. My obligation was totally for the business, you understand – not your skull or my licence.’ He watched her as she pushed the silky bundle of hair into the skid-lid. ‘We are still a going concern, aren’t we?’

  ‘Maybush,’ Nell said with mock severity, pulling a face as she adjusted the visor. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I’ve had my first ten pints of shandy.’

  The journey was over far too quickly. Even though he’d driven more slowly than usual to savour the feeling of Nell’s arms around his waist and the impression of her cheek against his shoulder, Newbridge humped into view long before he was ready for it.

  Their table on the terrace was free. Jack was pretty sure that if it had been occupied by the business-lunchers he’d have asked them to move. Nowhere belonged to him and Nell more than these wooden benches and the sound of the river.

  ‘You first then.’ She placed her glass in the dead centre of a beer mat. ‘Although this is like a replay. We really should keep in touch more. Then we wouldn’t have to have the reprises. And although I don’t want to open old wounds or anything – you’re looking a lot better. Have you come to terms about – er – the baby?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I just needed time on my own to sort it out. And, Ms Bradley, there’s no way that I’m going to say anything before I’ve heard why we haven’t got any transport. Have a heart, woman.’

  ‘OK,’ Nell shrugged, drawing her finger through the condensation on the outside of her glass. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin –’

  He was never sure afterwards how he managed to listen to the whole tortuous story without interrupting her. His heart alternately rose and sank – with far more effect, he reckoned, than any ride on the Crash’n’Dash could have caused. At the part where he realised that she wasn’t going to be marrying Ross Percival after all, he wanted to leap up and punch the air in triumph; the fact that it meant they’d lose Clem’s lorries as a result was a mere hiccup in comparison, but he managed to control himself and even contrived to look sympathetic. The Sam-Claudia-Danny story was all a bit too EastEnders to be true – although he expressed complete support for her decision to leave that obnoxious bastard. And the fact that they’d be travelling with the Memory Lane Fair and bringing a helter-skelter – no, sorry, a slip – and a big wheel, was fantastic news.

  This was almost toppled from pole position by the in-formation that Clem Percival had not, as Nell had feared, interfered with her Guild rights.

  ‘So,’ Nell finished up, ‘the incredibly wondrous news is that I’ve spent ages talking to the Guild, following up adverts for sites and – we’ve actually got our first gaff.’ She crossed the fingers of both hands. ‘At the weekend. The steam rally at Broadstone is desperate for an olde tyme fair – they’ve been let down at the last minute because someone had double-booked – and, after a red-hot telephoning session, we’ve got four or five definite bookings and two provisionals to follow on. These should see us well towards the end of the season, and by next year we’ll be part of the scene and on the road permanently.’ Her excitement had tinged the creaminess of her skin the way the sun never could. ‘All we need now are some lorries – well, not any lorries – we need, as far as I can see, at least five numbers and the bonus thingy in the lottery to buy the wagons that Clem had commissioned.’

  ‘No problem at all then.’ Jack leaned back. ‘But honestly – our first real gig? This weekend? Jesus.’

  Nell smiled. ‘I know. That’s how I felt. That’s why I’ve transferred my office to the shed. I didn’t want anyone else to know what was going on. I’m going to move my living wagon over tomorrow – and that’ll be my final break with Bradley-Percival.’

  He touched her hand gently. In friendship. He understood. Cutting the umbilical cord was never easy.

  But any day now, depending on the provision of transport, of course, the gallopers would be built up, the organ would play ‘Paree’, punters would ride – and every dream he’d ever had would come true.

  He looked across the table at Nell and realised just how much his dreams had changed since that day they’d met at the Downland Trust auction preview. How much both their lives had changed, simply because of the other’s existence. Hell, much more introspection and he’d be questioning the existence of Fate, the meaning of life – he might even get on to crop circles.

  ‘I’ve got my money from the sale of the dodgems to Ross and Danny,’ Nell was standing up, ready to buy refills, ‘but that won’t be enough. I mean, they paid me a rock-bottom price because they knew I wanted to go quickly, and I wasn’t going to haggle. But these lorries of Clem’s will cost a small fortune. My money might buy one of the Seddon-Atkinsons and maybe – at a pinch – the second-hand ones, but we’re still looking for a huge amount. Same again?’

  Jack nodded. It was one hell of a conundrum. He pushed his hair from his forehead and watched a family of moorhens diving and squabbling in the shallows, and the willows dripping lazily into the river. Christ! What the hell was he thinking about? He’d sat there, beaming like an idiot over the news that Ross Percival was no longer on the scene and that the gallopers would soon be on the road, and had allowed Nell to go and buy the next round. And she’d bought the first one, and he already owed her a fortune for the HGV test. He didn’t mind her knowing he was broke, but he’d hate her to think that he was a free-loader.

  He reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet and drew out the Morland-logoed envelope. Turning it over in his hands he realised he hadn’t given his pay-off a second thought. Overcome by Nell and her news, his father’s severance token had
n’t been important. Idly, he slit the envelope open.

  The figures on the cheque made him rock on his heels.

  He folded it again, stuffed it back into his pocket, and finding a rather grubby fiver in his wallet, pushed his way through to the Maybush’s bar.

  Several of the Downland Trusters had arrived at Fox Hollow by the time they returned. Nell must have been busy, Jack thought, watching as she shook her hair free from the crash helmet. She had phoned them all, telling them the news – good and bad. Percy and Dennis, Fred and Harry, had arrived and were scrambling between the ghost train and the caterpillar – with scant regard for Jack’s living quarters – checking that everything was as it should be.

  ‘Piss awful news about the lorries,’ Fred said candidly. ‘We could’ve done without that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Percy bellowed across the shed. ‘Summat’ll turn up, Nell, love. Summat always does. What time have you been given for the Broadstone pull-on?’

  ‘The steam rally is on Saturday and Sunday but a lot of people arrive early, so they’re letting us on to the field at ten in the morning on the Friday. I thought we’d load on Thursday night and pull out of here as soon as it’s light on Friday – transport, of course, permitting.’ She grinned. ‘Reckon you can complete building up the gallopers – and the rest – in time for a six-o’clock opening Friday evening?’

  A chorus of ‘no sweat’ indicated that they could beat John Carter hands down.

  Butterflies of excitement were already beating their wings in Jack’s stomach. It was really going to happen at last. And if Nell could get at least some of the wagons, they could do double runs if necessary, surely? He knew that wasn’t how showmen worked normally, but when had any of this adventure been normal?

  A shrill blast of Wagner sliced through the heat of the afternoon and Nell whipped her mobile out from the back pocket of her shorts. She said yes and no and nodded and Jack watched the sun spinning golden cobwebs in her hair.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked when she snapped the aerial down. ‘I’ve heard mobiles playing Mozart, but I’ve never heard Wagner before.’

  ‘It’s the Ring Cycle.’ Nell was laughing. ‘I thought it was appropriate – and that was Eckstrucs. Clem’s dealership mates – they’ve accepted my offer for one of the Seddons and the second-hand trucks. They’ll be ready at the weekend. That only leaves the remainder of the galloper wagons to finance, but who cares? God, I can’t believe this is actually happening – can you?’

  Jack was paralysed by her. He wanted to kiss her, to touch her, to love her. He took a deep breath, trying to control the shaking, and grinned at her. ‘It’s really going to happen at last, isn’t it? The Memory Lane Fair is actually a reality? If only we could get the other trucks by this weekend.’

  ‘God!’ Nell laughed, scrambling to her feet. ‘You want jam on it, Jack Morland! Just be grateful for small mercies!’

  ‘Oh, I am.’ Jack stood up, his smile matching hers. He reached out and pulled her towards him. ‘And before you go and tell the others the good news, why don’t we have a small celebration of our own?’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Nell groaned for the three-millionth time. How could she have made such a fool of herself, getting so excited? Snuggling up so close? She had clearly read every sign incorrectly and, expecting Jack to feel the same way, had probably only succeeded in frightening him away. Absolutely bloody brilliant, Petronella.

  Of course it was obviously far too soon for him – after Fiona and the baby and everything. Just because she’d escaped from marriage to Ross, it didn’t mean that everyone else had the same zinging sense of relief after the break-up of a relationship. And he was a flatty – he’d had a house and a garden – he was only bloody playing at being a traveller, after all. What the hell would he want with her? He probably didn’t even find her attractive. She was tall and gangling and freckled, and that damn Fiona had been petite and blonde. Nell moaned with mortification.

  She’d just been so sure that it was right. So sure. They’d become such friends; they’d grown so close. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. After all these years – all the conversations with Adele – all the late-night chats with Claudia – when she’d told them that she would know when she’d met the right man. And she had.

  The feelings she’d had for Jack Morland had, just as she’d known they would, hit her smack between the eyes with trumpets, fireworks, and a deluge of rose petals.

  When Jack had pulled her towards him, she’d been convinced that this was it. The moment for his declaration. The moment when she could tell him how she felt. She’d all but thrown herself at him. She squirmed at the memory. And he’d simply hugged her, kissed her cheek, told her again how brilliant it was about the lorries and how he’d love to stay, but there was still something that he had to do, and then leapt on the Roadster and roared away.

  It was Thursday evening at Fox Hollow. The Downland Trusters were doing their Munchkin act again, loading the ghost train and the caterpillar into the Eckstrucs wagons that had been delivered that morning. Nell had managed to pay for them with her money from the dodgems, but now not even the dream-come-true sight of the gleaming maroon trucks, so carefully liveried with ‘Petronella Bradley’s Memory Lane Fair’ in gold leaf, could dilute her sense of humiliation. Not even the fact that the one brand-new Seddon-Atkinson that had been specially designed to take the platforms and the lighting spars, the swifts, the tilts, and every other piece of the Savage that could be dismantled – apart from the horses, the rods, and the rounding boards – now stood in the yard, could lift her embarrassment.

  She sat on the steps of her living wagon, knowing she should be helping but feeling that if Jack wasn’t here then her heart wouldn’t be in it. They should be doing this together. Their dream had been symbiotic. And the worst humiliation of all was that, when she’d arrived with her living wagon, every trace of him had gone from the shed. The bedding and the clothes, the paints and the Beck’s, had all evaporated. Even the scent of him had vanished. It was as though he had never existed. Oh Christ, what had she done?

  ‘Come on then, Nell, love.’ Harry paused in manhandling a corner of one of the galloper platforms, perspiration trickling down his delighted face. ‘Give us a hand. No time to lounge about looking glamorous. We’re great believers in sexual equilibrium. Come and grab a corner.’

  Nell grabbed. She heaved and strained and sweated with the rest of them. It should have been the happiest moment of her life.

  ‘I reckons,’ Dennis wiped the ubiquitous oily rag round his face when the platforms were loaded, ‘that we can do this. If we get this lot dumped off first thing, then come back for the horses and the rods and the rounding boards – oh, I know they should have special trucks – but if we work with what we’ve got for the time being –’

  ‘We don’t have much choice, do we?’ Nell didn’t want to disillusion them. They were wonderful. They were so delighted. And they were right, it was possible in theory. Maybe. Perhaps. And it should be quite easy to do it in two or even three journeys if necessary – especially now they had another Class I driver – if, of course, he ever turned up. She swallowed the stupid tears and grabbed a trailing corner of the tilt.

  The Trusters sat on the loads, puffing while she made tea, this time in her own kitchen in the living wagon. She could make tea. Tea didn’t remind her too much of Jack. The Downland Trusters had arrived in every conceivable form of transport, some with tents, others with small caravans, and had pulled them round in the yard like a wagon train. Tomorrow morning the whole mobile village would move to Broadstone. They were talking, smoking, laughing. None of them mentioned Jack’s absence.

  The ghost train and the caterpillar were loaded. The first part of the gallopers was almost finished. With help from Dennis and Percy, Nell had rigged up the Gavioli truck behind her living wagon, and the music cupboard had been dismantled and packed into Fred’s trailer. There probably wasn’t any more they could do.r />
  Claudia and Sam were going to be driving directly from the Forest of Dean to Broadstone in the morning with their stuff.

  Nell had had a good luck phone call from her parents and, most surprisingly, an Interflora bouquet with ‘Fingers crossed. I know you can do it’ on the card from Ross.

  The evening was turning to musky twilight. The sky was skeined with vibrant colours heralding perfection for tomorrow. The Trusters had brought primus stoves and baby barbecues and the air was redolent with the scent of burgers and bacon.

  ‘Stone the bleeding crows!’ Fred choked on his sausage sandwich. ‘Hark the herald angels – or what?’

  Nell, who was sitting with Percy and Dennis, not eating because of the dry lump of disappointment lodged in her throat, listened with the rest of them. The low familiar rumble of a large lorry was Doppler-effecting its way along Fox Hollow’s high-banked lanes. Nell felt a slight surge of optimism. Sam and Claudia must have decided to start early and come straight to Fox Hollow. They’d made good time. At least she could cry on Claudia’s shoulder tonight.

  She scrambled to her feet. ‘Oh my God!’

  A small white Eckstrucs van skittered into the yard followed in stately splendour by two brand-new Seddon-Atkinson lorries purring regally. Gleaming in maroon and gold, perfectly liveried, the convoy pulled to a halt beside the wagon-train encampment. The Trusters were all on their feet.

  ‘The remainder of your order.’ The driver scrambled from the white van and brandished the paperwork towards Dennis. ‘Horse truck and forty-footer. On time, I hope. We knew it was an urgent job – but of course we had that blip in the middle. Still we was told to carry on with the job and get ’em here before midnight – and here we are.’

  The two lorry drivers had already dived back into the white van for the return journey. The van driver was obviously also eager to go. ‘Sign here then – safe delivery and all that. Nice piece of workmanship. Like this old stuff, meself.’