Lots of Love

by Unknown

  She waited until the sounds of the great and the good filing past the cloakroom had faded into the distant burble of the great and the good trapped in the Blue Drawing Room. Then she crept out into the hall and headed for the front doors.

  ‘Wrong way,’ a voice called behind her.

  Closing her eyes, Ellen ground to a reluctant halt.

  ‘You really do have an appalling sense of direction.’

  She turned around and smiled apologetically at two long, muscular legs, refusing to let her eyes travel any higher. ‘Actually, I was going to leave. My dog’s already been alone several hours and—’

  ‘Mother will be livid.’ He sounded amused.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know your mother, but please apologise for me. I’m Ellen, in case she asks.’

  ‘You can do it yourself. Mother! Ellen wants to apologise.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ came an impatient bark, as footsteps rattled down a wooden staircase. A moment later two sturdy female legs had joined the denim ones.

  Ellen winced and looked up, forcing a big smile. ‘Lady Belling, we haven’t met but—’

  ‘You’re the Jamieson gal.’ She fixed Ellen with the two silver bullets, clearly impatient to get back to her sitting ducks.

  ‘Yes. I was just telling your son I have to get home, so I’ll miss the rest of the auction I’m afraid, but—’

  ‘Nonsense!’ she bellowed, the silver bullets transforming into harpoons. ‘You must come back in. Little Ophelia’s been looking for you everywhere. Rude to let her down, eh?’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll under—’

  ‘Come on – trot on. You too, Jasper. You can’t lurk around out here like a butler.’ Five feet nothing of brawn and will-power, Hell’s Bells ushered them both through the double doors as though shooing reluctant Aberdeen Angus up a cattle ramp. As they were propelled through, Spurs muttered in Ellen’s ear, ‘I’ll bid on yours if you bid on mine.’

  Ellen stared at the room in disbelief. Almost all the assorted bric-à-brac furniture was now empty. Only the faithful few – Ely and his wife, Hunter Gardner and a few of the old-biddy bidders – remained. The Gin Palace residents had gone, as had the Lubowskis, along with suave Giles and his flame-haired ex-wife.

  Sitting on an ornate dining chair in a middle row, as close to the door as possible, Pheely shot Ellen a look of panic-stricken empathy, rolling her eyes. While Jasper slumped angrily into a huge carpet sofa near the front, Ellen nipped in behind Pheely.

  ‘Where have you been?’ her friend murmured.

  ‘I got lost on the way to the loo. What about you?’

  ‘Frogmarched back by Ely bloody Gates. Who was that you came in with?’

  ‘Jasper Belling, I think. Isn’t it?’

  Pheely craned her neck, but he was submerged in the sofa several rows ahead. Only one scruffy trainer was visible. The huge green eyes turned to look at Ellen. ‘That can’t be Jasper. He used to be so beautiful. Like an angel, my father always said. Besides, he’s blond.’

  Dignified in the face of such desertion, Hell’s Bells clambered on to her library steps and took up where she had left off as though nothing had changed.

  ‘Lot thirty-one.’ She tugged at the half-moons on their chain. ‘A weekend at Eastlode Park, full board, all facilities at your disposal. Do I hear a thousand pounds? . . . Five hundred, then? . . . Two? It’s in a very good cause.’

  Ellen could hardly bear to watch as lot after lot was hammered home at knock-down prices, almost all of them to Ely Gates. Gone was the machismo competition among the village men. Most lots flew past with just a single bid, however paltry, securing the promise.

  The occupant of the sofa – who might or might not be Spurs – didn’t bid on a single item. Neither did Pheely nor Ellen: they were covertly scraping their chairs closer together to discuss escape tactics.

  ‘Do you have a mobile phone with you?’ Pheely breathed.

  ‘Yes, but it’s switched off.’

  ‘Turn it on and call this number.’ Pheely recited her own mobile number. ‘I’ll pretend it’s Dilly having a crisis and that you must give me a lift. Then we can piss off to the pub.’

  ‘I have to bid on something before we go. I feel so mean otherwise.’

  ‘Bollocks you do. Just call the number.’

  ‘Lot fifty-three,’ Hell’s Bells read from her list. ‘A course of riding lessons donated by Rory Midwinter. Who’ll start me at one hundred?’

  ‘I’ll bid on this.’ Ellen made to raise her hand. ‘I need to learn to ride so I can trek in Mongolia.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Pheely grabbed her hand before she could raise it. ‘Rory’s Hell’s Bells’ nephew. He taught Dilly to ride and she’s always falling off. He’s hopeless.’

  Since the lot immediately attracted several bids from the biddies trying to get cheap lessons for beloved, pony-mad grandchildren, Ellen acquiesced and reached for her phone.

  ‘Seventy pounds to Mrs Turnball . . . Going, going, gone!’ The plant stand took another hammering. ‘Right, that means we’ve reached lot fifty-four.’ Hell’s Bells cleared her throat and shot the carpet sofa a hard look. ‘Three wishes to be granted to the winning bidder, kindly donated by Jasper Belling.’

  Buttocks shifted uncomfortably on seats and disapproving murmurs were trapped behind pursed lips.

  ‘Who’ll start me at five hundred?’ Hell’s Bells offered menacingly, hoping to intimidate a hand into shooting up. There was a chortle of amusement from the biddies and the silver gaze slid towards them with deadly intent. ‘Is that an opening bid from you, Hyacinth?’

  The biddies looked away hastily and adopted stone-statue stances.

  ‘Two hundred and fifty, then?’ A winning smile lifted the patrician features, as she willed her guests to bid on her son’s lot.

  The few buyers left at the auction all shared a common goal: to avoid buying Jasper Belling’s lot at all costs. The room was toxically silent, the hatred within it almost palpable.

  ‘Come on. Who’ll start me at a hundred?’

  Ellen could feel embarrassment tightening the seams of her shirt on Spurs’ behalf as she glanced around the static room. It was like sitting in a chamber of cryogenically frozen corpses, all of whom had died from inhaling the same bad smell.

  The trainer poking out from the sofa twitched angrily.

  Taking advantage of the lull, Pheely glanced at Ellen again, then at the phone she was clutching, and mouthed, ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘Fifty?’ Hell’s Bells growled desperately, glaring with ill will at a hunting crony.

  Ellen turned on her mobile, watching the little screen. At the same moment that Hell’s Bells announced in a furious voice that she’d take ‘any offer whatsoever for this lot’, the little phone let out a shrill ‘woo-hoo’ to announce that text messages were waiting.

  ‘Is that a bid?’ Hell’s Bells raised her chin triumphantly.

  Ellen looked up. ‘Um – er . . .’ The silver gaze was spellbinding in its power. Hell’s Bells knew full well that she had Ellen completely at her mercy. Then a curious, almost girlish smile lit up her freckled face. ‘Shall we say five pounds?’

  The trainer kicked the sofa arm hard.

  Ellen smiled uncertainly, wondering if this was a joke.

  ‘Say no,’ hissed Pheely. ‘Say no, absolutely not.’

  But Hell’s Bells had already taken the smile as agreement. ‘Five pounds I’m bid for lot fifty-four. Any advance on five pounds? No? In that case, going . . . going . . . gone.’ There was an unmistakable sound of splintering wood as gavel hit plant stand. ‘Make a note of the name, Gladys.’

  ‘Oh, I have, your ladyship.’ Glad Tidings’ pink face peered at Ellen over her clipboard, the berry eyes conveying a curious mixture of victory and sympathy.

  ‘You idiot,’ Pheely muttered, and then she gasped as, ahead of them, a dark head of curls appeared over the sofa and two compelling eyes studied Ellen.

  Snap! Those silver traps claimed Ellen’s gaze in
return – lapis-lazuli fixed in a sterling hold. She held her breath.

  ‘Blood-y hell,’ Pheely breathed. ‘I don’t believe it. We must get out of here.’ Grabbing Ellen’s phone, she dialled her own number. A moment later, the theme tune to Roobarb and Custard was piped into the grand manor drawing room courtesy of a small Nokia.

  ‘Sorry! Emergencies only!’ Pheely feigned embarrassment as she answered it. ‘Hello . . . what? WHAT? Now? Oh, my God. Of course. Straight away, darling . . . Ssh, ssh. Stop crying. Of course I’ll come. I’ll need a lift – oh, hang on. I have a friend here.’ She covered the phone and asked in an overloud voice, given that Ellen was just inches away, ‘Can you give me a lift to Trowbridge in your jeep, darling? It’s a complete crisis call.’

  ‘Now?’ Ellen, a hopeless actress at the best of times, found herself doing her awkward Eliza Doolittle voice as though trying out correct vowel sounds for the first time.

  ‘Yes . . . now! We haven’t a second to spare.’ By contrast, Pheely was really getting into her role as she pretended to talk into the phone again. ‘We’re on our way, darling. Try to hang on in there until we get to you – and don’t do anything silly.’

  Ellen hoped the rest of the room – which was agog – couldn’t hear Pheely’s voice echoing out of her own phone in stereo from the depths of her handbag followed by a shriek of feedback as the call was curtailed and Pheely threw her phone in with it.

  ‘Sorry, everybody!’ She stood up, grabbing Ellen’s arm. ‘So rude to leave like this, but Dilly’s in peril. Fabulous night, Isabel. Thanks so much.’

  Standing on her library steps, Hell’s Bells regarded them with astonishment.

  They were almost out of the door when Gladys hopped across the room to accost them. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something, dear?’ She held out her hand to Ellen.

  ‘What? Oh – right.’ Ellen fished in her pocket and found a tenner.

  ‘I’ll fetch change.’

  ‘Please don’t – it’s in a good cause.’

  Gladys gave her a wise look, which told Ellen that her ten pounds was going to be the most expensive donation of her life.

  Looking over the little woman’s shoulder, she could see Spurs still watching her from his sofa, his unsmiling face tilted with interest. She rocked as her body took a huge and unexpected G-force jolt. It was like standing at an open aeroplane hatch looking down into pure white cloud.

  Then Pheely grabbed her arm and tugged her back into the fuselage, eager for some light refreshment.

  ‘Are you sure we’re safe in here?’ Ellen asked again, as she sipped her pint at a corner table of the Lodes Inn. The pub was so close to the Bellings’ home that they were almost drinking in the shadow of the manor walls. ‘What if somebody from the auction comes in?’

  ‘None of that lot drinks in here,’ Pheely insisted, knocking back her pint of Guinness with such speed that she gave herself a moustache like Giles Hornton’s in negative. ‘Neither do I normally, but I thought you’d like it. It’s very authentic, isn’t it?’

  It was also certainly authentically popular, the main saloon being so packed with locals that getting to the bar was impossible. Ellen and Pheely were in the ‘lounge’, which was no more than two sticky tables rammed into a broom cupboard beside a dartboard. Their conversation was punctuated by head bobs as they ducked to avoid the arrows flying past their ears or the sweaty armpits of men leaning over to extract their feathered friends from the target.

  To Ellen’s surprise, the locals paid the two women barely any heed. If she’d expected the pub to fall silent, Withnail and I-style, when they walked in, she had been mistaken. Just like her local in Cornwall, the Lodes Inn was on the tourist trail and accustomed to strangers. Landlord Al Henshall tried his best to discourage them – the pub served no food and was dingily unwelcoming – but a few stray ones always got in. It was assumed that the tanned blonde and her curvaceous friend were staying in one of the village’s holiday cottages, or a local B-and-B.

  Pheely was almost as unfamiliar here as Ellen, and she seemed impossibly overexcited by the anonymity. ‘This was such a good idea – we should have come when I first suggested it. That way you wouldn’t have got lumbered with your death wishes and I wouldn’t have been asked to cast a magic Godspell in just five weeks. How I’m going to make that girl look human is beyond me – her face is already like a death mask.’

  ‘Godspell?’ Ellen recognised the name. ‘The little Goth?’

  ‘You have picked up village life quickly.’ Pheely added a white nose to her moustache as she took another swig of Guinness. ‘Yes. Bloody Ely wants me to capture the little monster in clay in time for his garden party – that’s just six weeks away. He really does take the pail sometimes. And Godspell is very, very pale.’

  ‘Hang on . . . we’re talking about the portrait bust he bought, right?’ Ellen was chasing butterflies again.

  ‘Yes. Ely wants his precious daughter encapsulated by these magic hands.’ Pheely looked at her broad, artistic fingers, which were scattered with gaudy glass rings. ‘Quite frankly I’d rather ring her scrawny little neck. I suppose I should thank heaven he didn’t ask me to sculpt Enoch. Ely’s son is pure poison.’

  ‘Godspell the Goth is Ely Gates’s daughter?’ Ellen made the connection with some surprise.

  Pheely ducked again as a dart spun towards double nineteen just above her head.

  ‘She doesn’t look much like her parents.’ Ellen tried to match up the small, vole-faced Goth with huge hunky Ely or her fat, snub-nosed mother.

  ‘I can assure you she probably does,’ Pheely giggled, ‘but given that neither Ely nor Felicity is one of them, we shall never know. She’s adopted – both the Gates brats are. Felicity couldn’t have children.’

  ‘Oh.’ Ellen blushed. ‘Oops.’

  Pheely shrugged. ‘It happens. I can assure you, they’re as spoilt and indulged as any naturally born children would be – more so,’ she said, with feeling. ‘That awful wailing we heard earlier – Roadkill.’ She dropped her voice, aware that she was in Wyck territory. ‘Godspell is their lead singer. Ely paid for all their equipment and amps and lets them practise in one of his barns. He’s even booked them to play at his garden party, as well as the usual Morrell on the Moor string quartet. Dreadful.’

  Ellen grinned at Pheely’s somewhat old-fashioned outlook.

  ‘Ely assures me he’ll make sure she comes for at least a dozen sittings, but I can’t imagine how,’ she was saying. ‘That girl is a law unto herself and practically nocturnal. When she’s not skulking around the graveyard or shouting into microphones, she’s fiddling with those creepy pets of hers. Did you know she has the third largest private collection of amphibians and insects in Great Britain?’ She shuddered. ‘And she’s hardly a girl – at twenty-three she’s old enough to know better. At that age cock and roach should mean something entirely different to a woman. Another beer?’

  Ellen had barely sucked the froth off her Stella. She watched in amazement as Pheely burrowed into the crowd around the bar – like a piglet in a huge litter fighting for a teat – and emerged moments later with two pints held aloft. ‘What fun.’ She slapped the drinks on to ash-crusted beer mats.

  ‘Is Reg here?’ Ellen asked, in a low voice, peering into the throng around the bar in search of the wiry gardener.

  Pheely cast a look over her shoulder as she sat down. ‘I haven’t seen him. Probably whooping it up with his chums at your cottage.’ Ellen was appalled, and Pheely giggled naughtily. ‘He always moves on to the Legion at nine. You can set your watch by it. Any later and he’s too drunk to avoid falling into the duck pond. I’ve been thinking . . .’ she lit a cigarette ‘. . . with any luck Spurs Belling won’t fulfil his promise to you. After all, who would for five pounds?’

  ‘I paid a tenner in the end.’

  ‘Darling, that boy – man, I suppose he is now – lights his cigarettes with tenners. That lot of his was terribly silly, you have to admit. He was obviously onl
y there tonight because the old bag forced him to be.’

  ‘Has he changed much?’ Ellen couldn’t resist asking about him now that Pheely had brought up the subject. ‘You seemed pretty surprised when you saw him.’

  The green eyes were shielded with long, painted lashes as Pheely drew a smily face in her Guinness top. ‘Mmm. I was.’

  ‘You said he used to be blond?’ Ellen fished.

  The smily face gained a few freckles, ‘Mmm. He was – at least, as a little boy. Now I think about it, he did get darker, but he was always dyeing it strange colours so it was hard to tell. I remember one summer it was shocking pink.’

  ‘Was he a New Romantic?’ Ellen remembered her own teenage predilection for blue streaks.

  ‘I don’t think you could ever call Spurs romantic.’ Pheely rolled her cigarette tip on the rim of the ashtray.

  ‘He must have been quite outrageous by Oddlode standards.’

  ‘He outraged most people, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he was evil, Ellen.’ The sigh that followed this statement made it clear that Pheely didn’t want to go there. The butterfly mind had closed its wings.

  Great! Ellen swigged at her lager. The ice-cream pump had chosen this moment to seize up. All she wanted was a few facts in case she needed to make three wishes. She hadn’t even wanted to buy them. She found her attraction towards him more annoying than enjoyable, and had no wish to get embroiled in village feuds. All she wished for right now was time to get over what had happened between her and Richard – Richard who was so good and honest. She knew a bad boy when she saw one – and if Saul Wyck was dodgy, Jasper Belling was lethal. Why was it she always found the sinners so much more compelling than the saints? Had Richard been a sinner, perhaps they would have lasted the trip.

  ‘I just hope, for your sake, that tonight’s cheapest lot is forgotten about by tomorrow,’ Pheely said eventually, adding fangs to her smily face.

  ‘What is so bad about him?’ Ellen asked, although her mind was only half engaged.