‘Fine!’ Vicky snapped.
‘I just need another cornet.’
‘Liz will do it,’ Andy volunteers.
‘I thought we were going out, Andy.’
‘No, we can’t afford it this week. We would only be stopping in, watching rubbish.’
‘By rubbish, you mean all the stuff I like. Well I’m recording it and I’ll watch it when I get in.’
‘Not if Match of the Day is on, you won’t.’ Andy replied. Liz sighed.
‘What is this concert anyway, Ernie? What are we playing?’
‘From what I can gather, you can play what you like. It’s a house warming party combined with a Bonfire Party. There’s you, and a disco and food and fireworks. Should be a good night. A lot of bigwigs have been invited and people local to the house.’
‘Where is it?‘ she asked.
‘Well, for me that’s the exciting bit. It’s at the old Black Friars Grange on the hill.
4 – The Grange
Things were changing at The Grange. Christine had noticed. Every day if there wasn’t fog or rain, she had a good peer through her window at the happenings. She saw a local gardener cutting the grass once, other than that she saw no evidence that there were people at Black Friars. But there were definite changes. Repairs had been made and she had seen a painter and decorators' van leaving the lane once, as she was on her way back from a business meeting in Manchester. Christine had a pair of opera glasses that she had liberated from a theatre in London and had no shame in standing for long periods of time trying to see into the house. She would often sit for an hour watching, whilst eating a plateful of jam sandwiches and drinking a bottle of wine. The walls upstairs had definitely been painted a rich red. Very nice. The woodwork looked to be polished rather than painted wood. Downstairs was harder to see as she was higher than the house. But she thought that the walls were painted dark too. Maybe a racing gPat, she thought.
She was still desperate to get a look inside and to meet the owner. She hoped they didn’t have children. She hated them. They would be going up and down the lane on their bicycles, being cheeky. She liked to sunbathe in a tiny bikini in the summer and she wasn’t a tiny woman. She wouldn’t be able to do that if there were children about.
One morning, she heard the letterbox go and then surprisingly saw Wayne, the postman, going past her back window, towards The Grange. She rushed towards her back door and flung it open in the fog. ‘Wayne, darling, could I see you a moment.’ She saw him stop mid step and drop his head slightly. She thought she heard him mumble something and he turned around and starting walking back towards her, with a professional smile on his face.
‘Miss Baker,’ he said.
‘I’ve told you before, darling, you are to call me Christine. We are friends, aren’t we?’
Wayne couldn’t think of anyone less he would like to call his friend as Christine. She was not his type of person and she was a downright annoyance. And she got too much post. He thought that the least you could do if you lived this far up the hill was make sure you didn’t get much post.
‘Do you have a letter for The Grange?’ She asked.
‘Electricity,’ he said. Probably best to keep dialogue to a minimum.
‘Could I ask you the teeniest favour? Could I ask that you give me that letter and I will say that it got delivered to my house by mistake. I would really like to get to know the owners.’
‘I’d better not, Miss Baker.’
‘Christine!’
‘Christine,’ he paused, ‘I could get into a lot of trouble if anyone found out.’
‘No one will know, Wayne. I was thinking, one time maybe you would like to come in for a little drinky after your round. It gets very lonely up here.’
He looked at her, his eyes big and round.
‘I could get into trouble for that as well. Here’s the letter.’ He shoved it in her hand and made a quick getaway.
She shouted after him, ‘don’t forget to call in a couple of weeks for your Christmas Box. Chrissy might have something special in her stocking for you! Compliments of the season, if you know what I mean!’
She thought she heard him say ‘I’d rather do without,’ but it was probably the fog muffling his words. She looked down at the letter in her hands. It was indeed a letter about the electricity supply. Addressed to Mr Norman Morgan. There didn’t seem to be a Mrs Norman’s name on the letter. Maybe she would be in The Grange after all.
She had to go out to a hospital check up in the afternoon and by the time she had got in and made herself very presentable, it was five thirty and it had been dark for over an hour. She took a last look at herself in her mirror and decided to add an extra layer of her favourite red lipstick and dangly earrings. Christine liked what she saw but as an afterthought, she decided to open another couple of button’s on her blouse. Once she had found her big torch, which she used for her cellar, she set off with the letter, down the bank. She was pleased to see that the gate was unchained and she opened it with a loud squeal of its metal hinges. They’ve not seen to that yet, she thought.
She walked up the drive. There was a large Mercedes parked behind the boundary wall, which she could not see from her house. There were curtains up at the windows now, at least downstairs. They looked expensive with a heavy lining. Not a chink of light came through. There was however a square of stained glass in the front door and its light shone down onto the drive, in a large oblong. She thought this was new. Christine stood for a moment and took a good look round the garden. A mercedes in the drive of a great house? They were asking for trouble. She would have had a security light here. But no such light came on as she walked up the three stone steps to the door. She thought she saw something, move quickly from the roof to the ground, at the right side of the house and quickly hide itself around the corner. That was strange. She looked again from where she stood, without moving and stared at the corner. Well, it had gone now, she thought, but even more reason to have a security light.
There was a large knocker on the door and she knocked three times. She waited and no one answered, so she tried again. Just as she had finished the third knock the door was quickly flung open and a very attractive man stood facing her. She would say he was in his fifties. Obviously wealthy as he was very well groomed and his clothes were immaculate and were made to measure. He didn’t speak. He just looked at her. She couldn’t tell if he was angry for her disturbance or happy to see her. He was totally expressionless.
‘Hello, Darling,’ she gushed.
No reply.
‘I live in the house just up the lane and I have a letter of yours that has been delivered to my house by mistake by that stupid post man.’ Backstabber, she thought. But she quickly dismissed it.
‘I’m sorry. How rude of me. I was quite taken aback by your arrival. I am Norman Morgan.’
‘Christine Baker,’ she said and stretched out her hand. She gave her very best wide smile. He looked at her for a moment then took her hand in its greeting and smiled widely too. She noticed he did not smile with his eyes. Just his mouth. His lips and gums and tongue were very red too. Maybe he had just been eating beetroot.
‘Please come in, Miss Baker. Is it Miss? I am sorry to presume.’
‘It is Miss, for the moment, Norman. Can I call you Norman? You can call me Christine. We are neighbour’s after all.’
She fluttered her eyelashes at him. He had seen a film a while back that reminded him of this woman. Whatever happened to Baby Jane. She could prove very useful to him. He would keep her alive until it suited him for her not to be so.
She walked into the large hallway with its sweeping staircase and black and white tiles. He gestured left and she went into his sitting room. Racing green it was. With dark wood furniture and expensive sofas.
‘Take a seat. Would you like some refreshments?’
‘If you are offering, it would be rude not to, wouldn’t it?’ She giggled.
‘Would you like some English tea or win
e or something else...Christine?’
‘A glass of red, if you have it, Norman.’
‘Of course. Red. I only serve red.’ He left the room and Christine looked closely at her surroundings. The floor was highly polished wood, with expensive Persian rugs on it. The walls were painted and so was the ceiling but the ornate work on the ceiling was clearly remaining from when the Friars had lived here. Norman returned.
‘I see you are admiring my ceiling, Christine.’
‘It’s very impressive, Norman. I would never have known there was such a beautiful house hiding behind those big walls and grass a few months ago.’
‘Ah, a beautiful house is like a beautiful woman, it just needs care and love to blossom.’
He’s coming on to me, she thought. It’s in the bag.
He handed her a cut crystal glass of red wine. ‘From my own vineyards in Switzerland,’ he proudly said.
‘You might think I am ignorant, Norman. But I didn’t know they made wine in Switzerland. I know I’ve never had any.’
‘No, Christine. I do not think that. The Swiss are very clever people. Their wine is so good....they keep it all for themselves.’
‘Ooh, Norman. I can see we are going to get on. That’s my philosophy as well.’ His mouth really was so red. He must be drinking too much of his red wine, she thought.
‘I am very glad that you came to visit me Christine, as I was shortly coming to visit you. You see, I was going to invite you to a party.’
‘A party. I love parties, Norman. I’m a very popular lady. Say no more. Do you need any help?’
‘I could do with a little help in one area, Christine.’
‘Fire away, Norman.’ She took another sip of the wine. She could tell he was foreign but he spoke English very well. Probably better than a lot of people that were actually born round here she thought snootily.
‘I have been abroad for a long time. I lived in the land of my ancestors but I decided that, as I got older. This was not for me. My businesses do not require me to be there and I have very capable workers. So I have been looking for a place I can retire to. A place I can make my own. I travelled to many countries and have not felt welcome but here on this Island of Great Britain, I think I have found everything I need. I have visited a few villages, especially in the north, but not stopped for a while. I had an extended stay just over the hill in Yorkshire and made a few friends. However, for certain reasons that I cannot explain, I was drawn to here. To Saddleworth, and then on to Friarmere. To the remoteness and the wildness and the hills. It reminds me somewhat of my own country. So I have found this comfortable house and want to integrate into the community, so to speak. I have learned of a festival of Guy Fawkes that is happening soon, is that right?’
‘Ooh yes. Bonfire Night. It’s this Saturday,’ Norman refilled Christine’s glass.
‘I have some entertainments coming. I have organised for your local brass band Friarmere Band to attend and play. I am looking forward to having them. I came across them just by chance too.’ He paused and took a drink from his own glass of wine. ‘And I have lots of fireworks. I have invited some people that I am very interested in meeting. Local celebrities and such. But I just have one problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Food. I do not know what you people eat for this festival. Or do you not eat anything special on this day? Food and festivals are very particular, where I was born.’
‘You’ve come to the right person, Norman. Meat and potato pie, red cabbage, black peas. Jacket spuds. Parkin. Maybe we could get some of your wine and mull it.’
‘Mull it. What is that? You mean like the eighties hairstyle. The footballers, they had it?’
‘What? Oh no. Not Mullet. Not a hairstyle. Mulled wine.’
‘I still do not know.’
‘Erm, spices and oranges and stuff.’
‘Ah like the gluhwein.’
‘Yes. That’s it. I know where to get all that from. I’ll sort it. I’ll just give you the receipt.’
‘Thank you Christine, but I just need the list and I will sort it myself. I have troubled you enough. I have workers here in England too. I would like to add my own twist to this food you see. I just have more thing to ask.’
‘Yes?’
‘What is a black pea?’
5 - Bonfire
It was a dark, rainy and starless night. Bonfire night, full of expectations had been its usual disappointment. Wet piles of wood littered the land, topped by many sad and soggy ragdoll Guy Fawkes’. However, the show must go on.
Black Friars Grange had never seen a party such as this. Black Friars Grange had, in fact, never seen a party at all. Outside, one half of the substantial front garden had a giant gazebo erected so people could stand and watch the fireworks and bonfire in comfort. The house was lit up and candles in jars shimmered all over the garden. A large pile of wood and branches was covered by plastic sheeting and under a large tree, sat a roly-poly Guy Fawkes, happily sheltering from the rain. The garden, was still quite wild, even after work done by the local gardener. But after years with no one to tend it, and it also being November, it was the best it could look.
Peter Woodall, affectionately called ‘Woody’ by everyone who knew him, was struggling down the dirt path, to the Grange, with various parts of his drum kit, strung about him. He was a large man and the walk up the hill, from where Michael had parked the car, had made him red in the face and short of breath. They were descending now, on the track to The Grange.
‘At least I’m warm now. You want to get that heater fixed in your car Mick.’
‘Michael hasn’t got the money for that, Woody.' Stephen said.
‘Shut up Stephen!’ Michael snapped.
‘Well I can’t accuse you of spending it on fast cars. What about loose women?’ Woody jokingly said.
‘He’d have to pay them, wouldn’t he Woody.’ Stephen said and nudged Woody with his elbow.
‘Less of it Stephen, unless you want to walk home,’ Michael grunted.
‘Eh Mick. What’s crawled up your arse?’ Woody asked.
‘I am not having my younger brother talk to me like that. He knows what he will get’
‘Bloody hell!’ Woody exclaimed, wanting to diffuse the situation now. ‘He’s twenty-nine years old’
‘So he should have learned by now then, shouldn’t he?’ He boomed. He said it way too loudly and Woody thought he sounded like he knew he was wrong but was trying to convince himself that he was right. Michael quickened his pace and Stephen quickened his too, so as to keep up. There was no way that Woody could walk that fast, even downhill. So he decided to put his drum cases down for a second and catch his breath. After a minute he heard voices and recognised them as some of the band, so turned around to look up the hill. There were no street lights here at all and it was drizzling again, so he put his hood up and waited. He knew the rest of the band would help him with his kit. The Thompson’s had never offered to carry a thing. Soon he saw Liz, Diane, Vicky and Colin. They all picked up a case from Woody, apart from Vicky. There was a much better atmosphere and conversation straight away. Woody thought that this was partly due to the fact that they had already had a few in the pub earlier. Diane especially was quite unsteady on her feet and had a big grin on her face, with flushed cheeks.
‘You got stuck with Thompson, didn’t you Woody?’ Liz asked.
‘Yeah. And lucky me, there was no heating in the car. We had to have all the windows open because of them steaming up and I was in the back. Getting the full force of it. Then to put a top hat on it, Thompson Senior just had a go at Steve. It was really awkward.’
‘Well you might get a lift back off Keith. I don’t think he was bringing anyone.’ Liz said.
‘Yeah and he won’t take anyone back either. Miserable bastard. I’m not asking him. A refusal often offends. Besides that, I never feel comfortable around him, being a copper. I always think I am going to admit to something I’ve never done.’
&nb
sp; They all laughed.
Michael and Stephen carried on in silence. They were soon at the Grange and Michael thought I should be living somewhere like this.
‘Can you smell that, Stephen?’ He asked.
‘What? Have you had egg?’ Stephen quickly covered his face with his sleeve.
‘No. Stupid boy! There is a reek around here. But it's money. Lovely money.’
He walked confidently up the steps and rang the bell.
A young woman answered the door. She was very attractive in a sexual kind of way. She had long, shiny, chocolate coloured hair. Dark almond shaped eyes and full cherry red lips. She wore a simple red sweater, which clung to her figure and a tight red skirt with black boots. Michael thought he recognised her, but that she was slightly different from the person he thought she was.
‘Good evening and welcome to Black Friars Grange,’ she said in a light voice.
‘Evening. We are from Friarmere Band. I am your point of contact.' He offered out a business card. Ernie didn’t know about them. Michael had gone to a machine on a service station on the M62 motorway and had had them done. She took it in her hands and read it.
‘Michael Thompson – Band Manager. Come in Mr Thompson.’ She opened the door further and they stepped in. She shut the heavy wooden door behind them.
‘This is my brother, Stephen. He plays the Baritone.’
‘That’s wonderful. If you would like to follow me.’ She turned on her heel and walked away from the door. She gestured to a dark green room and said, 'You may go into there after you have played to join the party. You are playing in the blue room,’ She walked past the green room, past another door that was closed and then opened the next door and gestured inside. This was a dark brown room and along one wall was a long table, heavy with food.
‘These refreshments are just for the band and no one else. If you would like to change here and when you have all arrived and are ready, I shall return and take you all to the blue room. The two men entered the room and she shut the door behind them. Behind the door stood Keith, Darren, Maurice and Vincent, all with plates piled high with food from the large table and a glittering glass of red wine each.
Sticky Valves: Book 1 of the Saddleworth Vampire Series Page 3
