by Wendy Holden
But none of his co-stars – or co-failures, given the state of their careers – annoyed Caradoc as much as Candice Floss, who played the mysterious femme fatale Signora Stiletto.
While the Backstabbers as a whole lacked esprit de corps, Candice was the worst team-player of the lot. Everyone hated the way she hogged the bows at the end; doing a little jump when she came on to draw the audience’s attention her way and then doing a little pat on her heart as she bent over – so low that her forehead touched her toes. Those cast members whose backs were too stiff to do more than nod resented this last in particular. They felt it was showing off. Candice also followed the dictum that when bowing you should look at everyone in the audience. Unfortunately, on some nights, this had not taken very long at all.
But the very particular reason that Caradoc hated Candice was that unlike the rest of them she had work lined up. This very weekend she was flying out to join Fifty Shades Of Grey, The Musical, in Orlando. Whereas he could look forward to doing voiceovers for local radio if he was lucky. Which wouldn’t even begin to approach the expense of running Birch Hall.
He might simply have to wait for another Murderous Death. Gilly certainly was; quite happily too. ‘I used to be a tour de force,’ she liked to trill over her gin and tonic. ‘But now I’m just forced to tour.’
Should he resign himself to a similar fate? Caradoc doubted it, and not just because the thought of traipsing round for months in the same (thanks to Gary) smelly minibus made his blood run cold.
The notices of the tour hadn’t been great, particularly his own performance. ‘The verdict is unanimous’ (Hexham Gazette), while cryptic, had probably been the best one, compared to which ‘thoroughly executed’ (Bristol Chronicle) seemed only a statement of fact. ‘Slick . . .’, from the Harrogate Post, had started well, but had ended badly: ‘. . . in the oil sense: sluggish, sticky and miserable’.
Oh well. If his theatrical career was at an end, it might be a good thing. He could simply stay at home at Birch Hall with Juliet. Open a B&B for touring actors, ha ha. Or maybe . . .
Caradoc’s brow furrowed as the thought began to form, to take flight . . . Yes! He could open a residential centre for acting training. There were enough bloody bedrooms at Birch Hall and its slightly collapsed state would only add to the theatrical ambience. They might even be able to do productions in the garden once that new gardener of Juliet’s had got rid of the poisonous plants.
Other ideas now tumbled into his excitable brain. Juliet had set-dressing experience; she could run a stage design course! Caradoc clasped his hands to his heart; the prospect was thrilling. They could stay at home together for ever, the Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh of theatrical training. He could hardly wait to see her, to tell her about it.
After their first, passionate physical encounter, of course.
Caradoc took out his mobile once more, but then saw the time on it. He’d try Juliet again afterwards. He’d better step on it. The Festival Theatre’s curtain was about to rise.
In the bar of the Edenville Arms, Angela was halfway down her third large Chardonnay. Jason decided that now might be a safe time to report The George Farley Incident.
He had hoped that she might have already heard about it and he would not, after all, have to be the messenger. But Angela had been away the day before – on a course, or so she had said – and been out of the loop.
‘So come on,’ Angela commanded, as Jason had known she would. ‘Give us the goss.’
Her tone was even more bumptious than usual. Perhaps, behind it, there was a new nervousness. Angela had not been away on a course the day before, but at the hospital, where she had been undergoing tests at the behest of her GP. Her last check-up had revealed a lump; something and nothing, Angela was certain. Either way, she did not plan to tell her colleagues about it. While wallowing in those of others, she kept her problems to herself.
She was looking at him expectantly, but how should he begin? The trick with Angela, as Jason well knew, was to present things in the right way. Angle a story to play to her prejudices. And there was plenty in this she would be happy to hear. That George Farley, who she hated, was ill, was the obvious headline.
But he could hardly tell her that without revealing the heroics of the others involved. Without mentioning Dan Parker, the man who had thrown her over for Juliet Turner. Or Adam Greenleaf, who seemed similarly uninterested in her overtures. And worst of all, Nell Simpson, who Angela had been forced to employ, had been the one to call the ambulance.
Jason gestured at Ryan for another gin and tonic. He had a feeling he was going to need it. Even Ryan’s blazing smile, and the electric touch of their fingertips as the glass was handed over, failed to cheer him in the usual way.
Angela listened, the muscles of her face working as she absorbed the news. Her various expressions did not fill Jason with confidence. ‘What a moron,’ she snarled, when he had finished.
It was not clear who was meant. ‘Which one?’ Jason ventured.
‘All of them,’ slurred Angela, swiping a hand across the bar and knocking over Jason’s bottle of tonic. It was practically full; neat gin had suited the occasion better.
Angela’s inebriated mind ping-ponged among the dramatis personae. Saving the life of George Farley had been idiotic of Adam Greenleaf. On the other hand, he was very good-looking. Sexy and stupid was a good combination.
As Jason well knew. She slid a look of teasing contempt to the manager, who shifted on his stool, silently wondering what it meant. What it means, Angela silently answered him, is that I know you’ve got the hots for your barman. And one day I’ll use that information.
She dragged her thoughts back to Greenleaf. He was the least to blame, she decided, because he was hers. Had she not hand-picked him to replace Dan? Their meetings hadn’t yet gone according to plan. But Angela hadn’t given up hope yet.
Nell Simpson was a different matter, however, mooning around the estate with her blonde hair, long legs and dangerously single status. Angela had hoped to discourage her, even send her packing, by putting her, a just-jilted woman, in the weddings department to face the Americans from hell. But it seemed to be going maddeningly well. A chance encounter with Julie in the staff car park had revealed that Nell was a dream to have about the place.
A dream with the nightmare of Beggar’s Roost to sort out. Ha ha! Angela twisted her lips with satisfaction at the thought of the mess that place was in. The Earl had mentioned a refurbishment, but the works department would take years to get round to it. By the time they did, Nell Simpson would be long gone.
Jason was now outlining Dan’s role in George’s rescue. Angela felt a cold fury sweep her. As she picked up, and replaced, her empty glass, Jason caught Ryan’s eye. The barman looked blankly back at him.
‘Bloody Dan,’ Angela snarled as Jason, admitting defeat, got up and went round the back of the bar to fetch the wine bottle himself.
‘Don’t you think he was a little bit heroic?’ Jason asked, his sense of fair play for once trumping his cowardice. He rose a little too quickly from the fridge and felt his head spin.
‘Bloody stupid,’ Angela countered fiercely. ‘George Farley was a horrible old man.’
‘He fought in the war,’ Jason pointed out. He knew it was madness, but he couldn’t quite bear to let Angela get away with such gross misrepresentation. Not in front of Ryan, anyway.
But Angela didn’t give two hoots about the war. Her campaign against Dan Parker and Juliet Turner, however, was another matter.
Here was one plan that could not possibly go wrong.
Hell, after all, hath no fury like a woman scorned. And Angela’s scorned fury was about to express itself. On Saturday night, Caradoc Turner would be in town with Murderous Death. Angela was looking forward to the play very much. But only because she had planned her own special private little dra
ma at the stage door afterwards, in which Caradoc would find out what Juliet had been up to in his absence.
CHAPTER 41
On Friday morning, Nell got up early to go to George’s house and pick up his things. There would be time to fit in a quick visit to the hospital before Rachel and Juno arrived in the evening.
The prospect was not cheerful, neither the hospital nor the clothes-gathering. The idea of poking around his property did not feel right. As for the hospital visit, she didn’t resent it, exactly; Nell was too kind-hearted for that. But there was no doubt this was an extra complication. Despite not intending or wanting to be, she had become responsible for an old man she hardly knew. At least for the time being. Until George got better and came home.
It was a beautiful blue and gold morning as she left the Edenville Arms and set off through the village. Steam was rising gently from the village green and, as she passed, droplets of dew flashed in the hearts of the flowers. The hedgerows were full of squawking sparrows, and the herby scent of grass played around her nostrils.
Despite all this beauty, Nell was prepared for her heart to sink as she rounded the bend and caught the first glimpse of Beggar’s Roost. She had, last night, felt compelled to warn Rachel of what was waiting for her when she arrived on Friday. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sorting it out,’ she had reassured her.
Just as she was sorting out George, and the job she was actually here to do, the estate literature. She was sorting out a lot at the moment, Nell reflected as she braced herself for the first sight of her new home. She could not see it, however. Something big was between her and the cottage. A skip, being unloaded from a lorry. What did that mean?
She hurried forward. The skip chains were rattling, slapping metallically against the big container’s hollow interior. She could hear voices too; men shouting. She caught the glow of hi-vis jackets. Sun bounced off a couple of hard hats. Whatever was going on?
The men were everywhere, in the garden and in her house. She could see them at the upstairs windows. They were all wearing dark blue overalls, and now she was nearer she could see they had a logo on the chest. It was a logo she recognised: the line of pillars of the Pemberton house front. These men were from the estate.
And now it all fell into place. ‘You’re from Works!’ Nell exclaimed to the first man she came across. He was young and freckled and grinned at her from under his hard hat. ‘That’s right. Emergency job, this.’
Julie, Nell realised joyfully, had been as good as her word.
‘You Nell?’ She twisted round to find herself looking into a pair of frank grey eyes set in a tanned and square-jawed face. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Tim, Julie’s husband.’
She felt like falling on his neck, but instead wrung his hand and thanked him profusely.
He brushed it off with a grin. ‘You’re all right, love. It’s the missus really. Word is law and all that.’
The skip was now positioned and a succession of thuds begun as the debris from the garden was hurled into it. Tim steered Nell out of danger. ‘We’ll be out of your way soon,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll take a while,’ Nell said. ‘It’s such a horrible mess.’
The team of men in dark boiler suits was working extremely fast. A gang in the garden were passing the rubbish out to another gang in the road. The heaps were disappearing before her eyes.
She could not see what was happening in the house, but she could hear banging within, and shouting. Men were hurrying in with big white pails, roller brushes and trays. Others were brandishing brooms and shovels. They all seemed very cheerful, shouting at each other and singing. Big, burly and boiler-suited as they were, they put Nell in mind of the little birds that helped Cinderella.
‘We’ll get it done today,’ Tim assured her.
Nell gasped. ‘You’re joking.’
The hard hat twisted from side to side. ‘We’ve been at it since six. Halfway there already. Like I say, t’missus’s word is law.’
There was a sharp sensation in the tip of her nose and Nell suddenly felt the overpowering urge to cry. She swallowed hard. ‘I can’t even offer you a cup of tea.’
‘Not sure I’d want one, from that kitchen.’ He moved off. ‘See you later, love. Should be done by the time you knock off work.
Nell doubted it, profoundly. But she did not want to sound discouraging. ‘I’ll just be next door for a while,’ she called to him, thinking she should cover herself lest the builders thought anything amiss. ‘The hospital’s asked me to get a few things.’
She watched Tim’s burly form stop and turn. ‘For old George. Yeah, I heard about that. You did well there, love. One good turn deserves another.’
He touched his hard hat and continued on his way. Nell proceeded on hers, hurrying up George’s path as, next door, Tim’s team, flashing her the occasional grin, rushed up and down hers, carrying boxes, bags and all manner of rotting and broken things she neither could nor wanted to identify.
One good turn deserves another. Both Julie and Tim had said it to her now. And so, Nell thought as she turned the key in George’s pristine front door, why not do yet another? Bring the old man’s things to him in hospital without feeling she’d been asked to bring the moon.
The hallway was practically silent. The cheerful shouting and the blare of radios sounded very faint from in here. The outside world felt quite sealed off, and yet the place was not sepulchral. It had a pleasant, firewoody smell, no doubt from the solid-fuel stove in the sitting room that she had seen through the window that day which now seemed a lifetime ago. She had had no idea what was about to happen.
The interior was very plain and quite masculine, which was unsurprising given that Edwina had not lived here for many years. How many? She could remember the gravestone had said 2004. Over a decade, then.
And yet Edwina had lived here; it had been her home. The thought made Nell feel intrusive, and rather shy. What if Edwina were looking down from wherever she might be, at this unknown woman in her intimate space?
The old man’s clothes would be in his bedroom. It still seemed awfully personal, this rummaging through his possessions. Better make it as quick as possible.
A flight of varnished wooden stairs led to the next floor. Nell scurried up them, hearing her feet on the treads and thinking how familiar the sound must have been to the Farleys. Each stair would have its special creak.
It crossed her mind, as she reached the landing, that the cottage had the same layout as Beggar’s Roost next door. Three bedrooms led off the top of the steps, and a bathroom. The place was bigger than it looked.
For a second she was tempted to peep in the bathroom. But she was not here to compare and contrast architectural features. She was on a mission. Guessing that the front-facing bedroom would be George’s, Nell pushed open the white-painted, panelled door.
Her first impression was that it was cool, shadowy and smelt of something woody, faint and delicious. Her second was that it was a complete Forties period piece; the wallpaper printed with small pink flowers; the net curtains; the brass-framed bed spread with the patchwork quilt; the washstand with the basin; the small shaving mirror propped up beside it.
A handsome mahogany wardrobe expanded across most of one wall. It had not one but two oval mirrors, let into the doors and throwing the light from the window into the mirror of the dressing table opposite. This was in the same style and same wood as the wardrobe; they were obviously a set and evidently quite a grand one.
Nell immediately thought of the posh Harringtons the old man had mentioned. Perhaps this bedroom furniture had been their wedding present. If so it had been appreciated; it was beautifully polished and cared for. She could not see a speck of dust anywhere.
She crossed to the dressing table. In the muted light from the deep-set, net-draped windows, the mirror gave an intens
ely flattering reflection. Nell thought of Edwina sitting here, looking at herself. Applying her make-up; that deep red Forties lipstick. On an embroidered cloth – very clean and carefully ironed – spread across the dressing table’s glass surface were arranged a brush, mirror and comb, all backed and mounted in silver.
In the centre of the brush and mirror backs was the engraved letter ‘E’. This must be the very set Edwina had used, pulling those very bristles through hair that must, given her husband’s confusion, have been a similar colour to her own. Nell bent to look at herself again, wondering how alike she and Edwina really had looked.
Each of the two small bedside tables, of solid brown polished oak, held a framed photograph. Nell went over to look at them. One was a smaller version of the wedding picture, and now, with more opportunity to study it, Nell could see that the resemblance between herself and Edwina was closer even than she had thought. She wondered what colour the bride’s wedding coat had been, and the little flower pinned to the lapel.
George, proudly clasping his wife’s hand on his arm, looked like a younger version of himself. The white hair had been dark and sharply parted, but the brows were the same. And while she had never seen him smile quite this widely, she had seen an echo.
The other picture was of seven young men in RAF uniform standing beneath an enormous aeroplane. You didn’t have to be a genius to guess that this was George’s wartime crew. Nell slipped the two pictures into her bag to take to the old man in hospital, and went to find the clothes.
