Phoebe watched as he fussed over which wine to put in the fridge from the stocks in the rack, and then set about perusing the menu, chatting to Maria all the time about what she was going to have. He was playing at being cheerful, and she supposed he was genuinely pleased for her, but something still wasn’t right with him. Whatever Archie had brought to Jack’s door, it wasn’t good. He had never mentioned a problem with his brother before, but now she thought about it, other than informing her he had a brother, he didn’t talk about Archie very much at all. Phoebe wondered whether she should come straight out and ask him why that was. But Maria was there and he obviously didn’t want to discuss it in front of her, no matter how coded they managed to make the conversation.
‘Do you think it’s too early to eat?’ Jack interrupted her thoughts. ‘I mean, we could wait a while if you want to order later.’
‘I’m happy to eat now. Maria has to go to bed early, doesn’t she, so maybe we should.’
‘Good point,’ Jack replied, pulling his mobile from his jeans pocket. He placed it on the table and then slid the menu over to Phoebe. ‘Come on then clever girl, choose something nice and don’t worry about the cost.’
‘No way,’ Phoebe said. ‘Tonight is my treat and I don’t want any arguments.’
‘But –’
‘I said no arguments. Just once, let me get it.’
Jack leaned over and kissed her. ‘Just this once then.’
*
Maria made as much fuss about going to bed as a five-year-old girl can make. Eventually, after bribery, cajoling and reverse psychology, Jack threatened that if she didn’t get her backside up the stairs Phoebe wouldn’t be coming to tea again. Phoebe made a pretend shocked face, and Maria moved faster than Phoebe had ever seen her move before.
‘Little madam…’ Jack said as he came back down after tucking her in. Phoebe gave him an indulgent smile.
‘I remember wanting to be downstairs whenever my mum and dad had company at that age. You always think you’re missing something spectacular when actually all they’re doing is discussing the price of paint in B&Q.’
Jack laughed as he flopped onto the sofa and slipped an arm around her. ‘What do you fancy doing? I’m not up-to-date on the current stock prices at B&Q but I could do some research.’
‘That’s ok,’ Phoebe giggled. ‘I can live without it for the moment.’ She paused. He seemed in a pretty good mood. Perhaps he would be a little more open to probing now that Maria was out of the way. ‘Jack… about what happened with your brother earlier.’
‘Leave it, Phoebe. There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘But –’
‘He’s always getting into some scrape or another, it’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘But I do worry…’
Jack pulled his arm from Phoebe’s shoulder. His whole body tensed.
‘I can see it’s upsetting you.’
‘Please… leave it.’
‘But I can help –’
‘Phoebe!’ Jack snapped. He lowered his voice. ‘Sorry. I just don’t want to talk about it and I don’t want you to ask me again.’ He reached for the TV remote and switched it on, flicking through the channels with an intense expression of concentration that suggested his mind wasn’t on what he was watching at all.
Phoebe wasn’t about to give up, but she knew when to throw a battle for the sake of the war. Tonight, it was best to leave things alone.
*
Phoebe trudged across the muddy field, wishing she’d worn more practical shoes for the occasion. She was also beginning to wish that she’d arranged to meet her mum and dad in a café or pub like normal people did on a Sunday. But she’d promised to show her face and she hadn’t actually been to one of her dad’s events for a while now so she didn’t really feel that she could back out. She spotted her mum sitting on a bench nursing a thermos flask with a rug over her legs. It was nippy, but not that cold, although Phoebe supposed that it might be if she’d had to sit there for the usual length of time. Her mum looked around and waved at Phoebe as she drew nearer. Phoebe glanced around at the other benches. There weren’t many people here. Others obviously had more sense than Phoebe and her mother and better things to do at the weekend.
‘He’s not finished yet?’ Phoebe asked as she took a seat and kissed her mum on the cheek.
She looked at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t be long now. I heard cannon fire five minutes ago so I think that will finish off most of the survivors. Once that happens the rest will probably surrender.’
‘That’s good. He’s not going with them to the pub afterwards?’
‘Yes…’ her mum threw Phoebe a sideways look. ‘I thought we were all going?’
‘With the society? Why would we do that?’
‘They haven’t seen you for ages and I thought you might want to tell people about your new job.’
‘I don’t think anyone would be remotely interested. ‘They’ll be too busy tallying up the dead and dissecting the battle. That’s all they usually talk about.’
Phoebe’s mum shrugged. She produced a plastic container from a tartan bag at her side and prised the lid from it. An overwhelming stench of processed fish wafted out. ‘Salmon paste sandwich?’
Phoebe shook her head and tried not to gag. She had been feeling delicate enough already after a late night with Jack.
‘Suit yourself.’ Her mum replaced the lid and dropped the container back into the bag. The roar of frenzied, testosterone-fuelled men reached them from across the distant fields, a soundtrack embellished by the clash of steel upon steel and the occasional explosion.
‘Sounds like a good one,’ Phoebe observed.
‘They had to cancel the last one so they’ve probably got a lot of pent up rage and frustration to get rid of by now,’ her mother replied serenely. ‘Biscuit?’ she asked, shaking a custard cream pack.
Phoebe shook her head again. ‘No thanks. You didn’t fancy watching this one?’
‘I’ve sat on the sidelines of enough battles to last me a lifetime. When you’ve seen your husband killed by musket for the tenth time it loses its impact. Besides…’ she picked up a book she’d been reading and waggled it at Phoebe, ‘this is brilliant. It’s kept me good and entertained.’
Phoebe nodded sagely. ‘The rain held off for them too.’
‘Thank goodness. You know what havoc it plays with the armour when it rains. The amount of money your dad has to spend on WD40…’
The earth-shattering boom of a cannon blast made them both look sharply across the fields where a dark plume of smoke was rising into the air. The sound of a horn followed.
‘Looks like they’re finished.’ Phoebe’s mum stood and rolled up the blanket before stuffing it into the tartan bag along with the thermos. ‘We’d better go and meet your dad.’
‘I wonder if he survived,’ Phoebe said as they started to march across the fields, every few steps having to yank a foot from the sticky mud.
‘I doubt it. The infantry rarely do.’
‘I thought he was going for officer.’
‘He couldn’t afford the new uniform this time.’
‘Right…’
‘So, any more news about your new job?’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m starting tomorrow.’ Phoebe smiled.
‘Really? That quickly?’
‘Well, they wanted someone in the post as soon as possible and as I didn’t have to work notice anywhere else there didn’t seem much point in hanging around. I’m glad; I just want to get stuck in now.’ As she said this, the little butterflies that had plagued her every time she thought about her new job started their pesky circuits of her tummy again. The nerves would settle, of course, and she was sure that in no time at all it would all be humdrum, but that thought wasn’t helping much now.
As they chatted, the first casualties of war began to file past. Most were drenched in sweat, some in a fair amount of fake blood, all dragging swords or muskets along. For dead and
injured soldiers they were remarkably cheerful. Phoebe’s mother smiled and nodded at one or two. As the crowds swelled, steel helmets and feathered hats filling Phoebe’s view, a familiar face appeared. It was hard to tell where his beard ended and the mud began, his face was so covered in grime, but through the mess he gave them a huge grin.
‘Alright, love?’
Phoebe leapt out of the way of a muddy hug. ‘Don’t you dare, I haven’t got time to wash this jacket before tomorrow.’
Her dad chuckled. ‘Sorry, love, I forget about normal behaviour when I’m in costume. How are you? Not been waiting too long, have you?’
‘Not really. I’ve been telling mum about the new job anyway.’
‘Oh yes…’ he began to walk back across the fields with them. ‘Are you excited?’
‘Moderately,’ Phoebe replied.
‘That’s the spirit; play it cool.’
‘So…’ Phoebe continued, ‘how was today?’
‘Fantastic! I died three times.’ He brushed a hand down his breastplate and beamed at her.
‘Aren’t you only supposed to die once?’
‘Depends if anyone sees you get up. I was like the Highlander.’
Phoebe burst out laughing. ‘You’re such a naughty cheat! You’d have made a brilliant, ruthless, Roundhead soldier for real.’
‘Tell that to my commanding officer.’
‘Phoebe wanted to know if we’re going to the pub now,’ her mum chipped in.
‘I think it was you who wanted to go to the pub,’ Phoebe said to her.
‘I did say I’d go for an hour,’ her dad said. ‘I’d love it if you came too – the lads were saying they don’t see much of you these days.’
Phoebe groaned. ‘They’ll only spend ages telling me how much I’ve grown and how they can still remember when I had braces and spots. It’s so embarrassing.’
‘I’ll shut them up the minute anyone mentions braces, I promise.’
Phoebe let out a sigh of resignation. ‘Ok. Just a couple of halves but you’ll need to run me home afterwards.’
‘Your mum’s driving today, aren’t you, love?’
‘I didn’t have much choice.’
Phoebe’s dad pulled her mum into a hug. ‘Ta, love.’
‘Ugh, get off you filthy man!’
‘Awwww, I’ll buy you a new jacket. Come here and give us a kiss…’
‘Dad…’ Phoebe laughed, ‘not in front of the children!’
‘Not in front of the other soldiers either,’ a Cavalier sporting a dirty bandage across one eye shouted behind as he marched past, laughing.
‘Alright, Ed,’ Phoebe’s dad called back. ‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Of course I am! That Martha Clements is one fine looking woman!’
‘Oh, do shut up!’ Phoebe’s mum replied, blushing and running a self-conscious hand over her hair. Despite her protestations, she was clearly delighted.
‘Come back and say that to my face!’ Phoebe’s dad shouted. Ed strode off, chuckling loudly.
‘See you in the Badger.’
Phoebe smiled at her mum. ‘I think it’s going to be a lively one today.’
‘You’re not wrong there.’
*
Phoebe nudged her way through the heaving crowd of Cavaliers and Roundheads, swords prodding her and protruding bits of armour catching her hair as she tried to squeeze past. It was bad enough trying to hold three drinks steady under normal circumstances, but this was proving a particular challenge. The stench of sweat wasn’t helping either and so many bodies were making a lot of heat. The Bald Badger was alive with animated chat and booming laughter as men teased each other about their performances on the battlefield that day.
Finally, Phoebe managed to reach the relative sanctuary of the table where her mum and dad were deep in conversation. She felt as though she had been through a battle herself just to get their drinks back without spilling any. She dumped all three on the table. ‘Pint of mild,’ she said, pushing one towards her dad. ‘And a Britvic orange,’ she added, sliding a second one towards her mum before sitting with her own glass.
‘What on earth is that?’ her dad asked, nodding at her drink.
‘Raspberry cider.’
He shook his head wonderingly. ‘What’s wrong with a decent pint of ale?’
‘Nothing… if you’re a big hairy Yorkshireman,’ Phoebe shot back with an impish smile. ‘I happen to be a small, slightly less hairy girl from Staffordshire.’
‘You’ve Yorkshire blood in your veins so be proud of it.’
‘I am. I just don’t want my veins to be full of ale as well.’
Her dad let out a roar of laughter. ‘You’ve genuine Yorkshire honesty and humour so I suppose I can let you off a girly drink from time to time.’
Phoebe glanced at her mum, who simply rolled her eyes with a quick grin.
Her dad leaned towards Phoebe and lowered his voice. ‘Geraint’s been asking about you again.’
‘Geraint’s the size of a combine harvester and with about as much subtlety,’ her mum cut in.
‘He’s a nice bloke,’ her dad replied defensively.
‘He’s a lovely bloke,’ Phoebe said. ‘He’s not for me, though.’
‘You’re only trying to fix her up with Geraint because you think it will persuade Phoebe to join the society.’
‘I’m not. Although we do need more women.’
‘And I’m not joining either before we go down that tired road again,’ Phoebe’s mum said.
Her dad shrugged and sipped his pint. ‘I was just saying, that’s all.’
Martha glanced around and lowered her voice. ‘Geraint isn’t right in the head. He can’t really expect Phoebe to find him attractive.’
‘Excuse me, but how do you know who I’d find attractive?’ Phoebe asked giving her mum an indignant sideways glance.
‘I’m just saying that I’m sure you’d want someone more your own age who shares your interests.’
Phoebe looked from her mum to her dad and then back again. The conversation seemed to turn to potential suitors with a frightening inevitability these days. She had often wished they’d leave her to get on with that whole business herself, when and, indeed, if, she ever felt like it again. But now that Jack was on the scene it was getting beyond awkward. She took a deep breath. Maybe it was easier to get everything out in the open at last.
‘I’m um… actually seeing someone anyway.’
Martha broke into a wide smile. ‘You are? Since when?’
‘A little while. Maybe a couple of months.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you say so? I’d have laid off the matchmaking,’ her dad laughed.
Phoebe ran her finger around the lip of her glass and shrugged. ‘It was early days. I didn’t know whether we’d last long enough to make it worth me telling you.’
‘It’s quite serious now then?’ Martha exchanged a significant glance with her husband.
Phoebe looked up. Was it serious between her and Jack? Now that she thought about it, she supposed it was. Things had been so easy and relaxed between them and neither had really questioned where they were heading. Maybe that fact alone made it serious. Until the key incident, of course. She nodded slowly. ‘I really like him.’
Martha clapped her hands. ‘When are we going to meet him?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll talk to him, see if we can fix something up. It’s not always easy for him, he has to make plans for his daughter, Maria and –’
‘Daughter? He has children?’
‘One child.’
‘He’s married?’
‘No, of course not, Maria’s mother is –’
‘So, how old is she?’
Phoebe suppressed an irritated frown. Why did it suddenly feel as if her mum was interrogating her? ‘Five. And absolutely adorable. And she’s lost –’
‘A big responsibility. Is he expecting you to take her on?
‘Nobody is expecting anybody to take her on. Jack
is a great dad and he’s looked after Maria since she was a baby just fine all by himself.’
‘Where’s her mum? Off having babies with other men all over the place?’
‘Dead.’ Phoebe took a gulp of her cider.
‘Oh…’
‘That’s a shame for the little tyke,’ Phoebe’s dad cut in. He picked a lump of dried mud from his beard, examined it, and then flicked it onto the floor before taking another swig of his beer.
Martha wasn’t to be put off. ‘Are you sure this man isn’t just after a new mummy for his little girl?’
‘So what if he is? Wouldn’t that be between me and him and nothing to do with anyone else? What if I did want to be Maria’s new mum?’
‘Do you?’
‘That’s not the point! Even if I did it’s up to me. She’s a great kid. She doesn’t need a new mum because nobody is going to replace Rebecca. I like Jack and it’s not about Maria or her mum. Can we please drop it now?’
‘I’m just trying to look out for you.’
‘Because I’m not capable of looking out for myself?’
‘You have to be careful. People’s motives aren’t always what they seem. And I don’t think you want to get tied down with a child at your age, especially one who isn’t yours.’
‘I’m twenty-seven, Mum! And I think I’m old enough to decide what I want.’
Phoebe’s dad cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we should just butt out, Martha.’ He turned to Phoebe. ‘I think it’s great that you’re courting again.’
‘Thank you, Dad,’ Phoebe replied. She knew her mum meant well and in the end her only concern was for Phoebe’s happiness, but her comments rankled all the same. It was the deep-seated distrust of anyone who was not just like Martha Clements that bothered her no matter how much she tried not to let it.
‘He must be a decent fella if he’s raised a bairn like that,’ her dad continued. ‘Not many would.’
‘What does he do?’ Always Martha’s second question about any new man in Phoebe’s life, roughly translated as how much does he earn?
‘He’s a web designer.’
‘One of those made-up jobs, then,’ Martha replied tartly.
‘It pays him a good salary and there’s a lot of demand for it these days.’
Mishaps in Millrise: Parts 1-4 in one book – plus a little extra… Page 6
