Casting Samson

by Melinda Hammond

  Stan and Molly looked at each other. Her mother spoke first.

  “But what about your friends here? What about Josh? Such a nice young man, and you were getting on so well with him. Has he told you—”

  “About Alan’s offer? Yes!” she interrupted quickly, unwilling to let them see her pain. She busied herself pouring more tea. “Well, Josh is fun, but he needs to sort out his career as well. Besides, we hardly know each other.” She glanced at her watch. “Five o’clock. I’ve planned a special dinner tonight, Mum, since we’re not opening again until tomorrow. I thought it would be nice to enjoy a quiet evening together. So if you’ll excuse me, you two just stay there and relax and I’ll start the cooking.”

  “Deborah, that was delicious!” Stan Kemerton sat back in his chair and put his hands over his stomach. “Couldn’t eat another thing. Where did you learn to cook lamb steaks like that?”

  “From you, of course.”

  “Well, he’s a good teacher,” her mother said. “Now, it’s your turn to rest while I do the washing up. No, I insist. I’ve been pampered long enough and it’s time I did something useful—a few dishes won’t hurt me.”

  She gathered up the plates and went out, leaving Deborah alone with her father.

  “So how is she really, Dad?”

  “She’s fine, love, as long as she doesn’t overdo it. But you can see why I have to sell this place. Working all hours, it’s just no fun on your own, and I want your mum and me to have a few good years together.”

  She leaned across the table and caught his hand. “I do understand, Dad. You and Mum deserve some time together. What’s your plan?”

  He leaned forward, saying eagerly, “Well, there’s this little cottage in Bosham, just right for us, but it’s not cheap, of course, and we’d need the proceeds from this place as well as our savings to set us up comfortably.”

  “Of course. And how big is this little cottage? Will you have room for the odd guest?”

  He began to search for his handkerchief. “Course we will, love. There will always be room for you.” He threw up his head, listening. “Now who can that be hammering at the door at this time of night?”

  They heard voices on the stair and Molly came in, her eyes shifting anxiously from her husband to her daughter. “My love, it’s Bernard Masters.”

  “What?”

  Bernard stood in the doorway, smiling uncertainly. Deborah had never seen him look so unsure of himself. “Hello, Debs, Mr. Kemerton. Hope you don’t mind me barging in like this, but I wanted to have a word with Deborah.”

  Stan rose immediately. “Oh well, look, love, if you two would like to be alone—”

  “No!” Deborah stopped him. “It’s all right, Dad. Don’t you move. I could do with some fresh air. Bernard and I will take a walk. Okay with you, Bernard?”

  “Um, yes. Fine.”

  “So why have you come, Bernard?”

  They were walking over the bridge to the High Street. The river ran dull and grey below them, reflecting the early dusk. Deborah set a brisk pace, for although the rain had stopped, the air was heavy with the threat of more.

  “I wanted to see you. I need to talk to you, Deborah. I came straight down from work this afternoon, but when I saw the Closed for Holiday sign on the restaurant, I went across to the Dog and Sardine to see if they had a room for the night, just in case there was no one here.”

  “That’s just as well, because Mum’s not been well, and I don’t want her bothered with visitors just now.” Deborah was surprised at her own assertiveness. It felt good.

  “No, of course not. Wouldn’t dream of it.” He sounded almost humble.

  “So we’ll go to the Dog for a drink, shall we?”

  She kept up the pace and they didn’t speak again until they reached the pub, where they found a table in one corner. Deborah ignored Kylie’s blatantly curious glances and waited for Bernard to buy the drinks.

  He set down a glass before her. “Your hair’s looking nice.”

  She blinked. In London Bernard had always insisted she keep it bobbed and straight, but since she’d returned home she hadn’t cut it, and it now reached her shoulders in a thick, wavy mass.

  “So, Debs. Have you thought any more about coming back?”

  “Give me one good reason why I should,” she challenged him.

  “Well, I miss you, for a start.”

  “That would soon pass.”

  “Well, what about taking your old job?”

  She stared at him, and he hurried on.

  “Things haven’t been going too well there since you left. The temp we brought in to do your job walked out—”

  “Oh? Did you try it on with her too?”

  He looked hurt. “Don’t be cruel, Debs. You were a good FM, and you know it, so the job’s yours if you want it. Naturally there would be a salary increase. And I’d like you to come back to the flat, even if you want to use the spare room, that’s all right with me.”

  She sipped her drink. It would be a way out for her, a way to move back to London, and a job to keep her going until she found something she wanted, something on her own…

  “Well, what do you say, Deborah? We could drive back tomorrow, make a fresh start.”

  A small voice inside her urged her to say yes, to give it another go. After all, what was there here for her?

  “I don’t know.”

  “But we were so good together, Debs.” He leaned forward, his confidence rising as her own uncertainty grew. He reached for her hand. “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

  She bit her lip, but before she could answer there was a cry from across the bar.

  “Deborah, so glad I’ve found you. We have another crisis.”

  “Miss Babbacombe! Whatever is the matter? Sit down, please, and I’ll get you a drink—”

  “No, nothing, thank you. I will sit down, though.”

  “So what’s gone wrong now?” Deborah had never seen Clara Babbacombe looking so flustered.

  “It’s Alan. He’s broken his arm.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. He was coming out of the back door of his house—to avoid the press, you see—when he tripped on the steps and landed on his elbow. Smashed the bone. Luckily his housekeeper was still in the house and rang for an ambulance. Anne’s gone to collect him from the hospital, but I’m afraid he won’t be taking part in the pageant tomorrow.”

  “So we have no Hugh.”

  “Not unless you can think of someone who can ride a horse and isn’t already taking part in the pageant.”

  They sat for a moment in deep silence.

  Bernard, who had been quietly listening to their conversation, sat forward. “I have a suggestion.”

  Deborah jumped—she’d forgotten he was there. “You have?”

  “I could do it.”

  She stared at him, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why, what’s involved?”

  Scenting a volunteer, Miss Babbacombe said quickly, “We need someone to lead the procession, dressed in armour and riding a horse—a docile old thing from the local riding stables, so there’s no danger there.”

  “Well, that’s no problem then. I’m staying overnight, I’ll be your knight in shining armour.”

  Deborah stared at him suspiciously, but Bernard merely smiled at her.

  “Deborah, I don’t think you have introduced your friend,” Miss Babbacombe spoke in the voice of one not to be denied.

  Deborah performed her duty and Bernard, oozing charm, held out his hand.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Babbacombe, and I’d be delighted to stand in for your colleague, if all I have to do is ride down the street in a costume.”

  “Splendid, and from the looks of you, Alan’s costume should fit you very well, with a few tucks here and there. That’s solved a major problem for us, Mr. Masters.”

  “Oh, please, call me Bernard.”

  “Very well, Bernard. Can you be at t
he Happy Landings car park at nine-thirty tomorrow morning? Deborah will show you the way, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, I’m sure she will.” He beamed at Clara Babbacombe.

  “Yes, well, now that’s settled I’ll just call in on Alan on my way home, to set his mind at rest. Good night, Deborah, Mr. Masters, and thank you again.”

  “No problem. See you tomorrow.” He raised his brows as he saw Deborah’s frown. “Now what have I done? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Why did you agree to take part? I didn’t think country life was your thing.”

  “I just wanted to help you out, of course. I know this little pageant means a lot to you. I could see there was a problem, and I thought I could be useful.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Bernard was looking much happier than when they’d first met that night. He grinned now and spread his hands.

  “How difficult can it be to ride an old nag down the High Street in your little procession? What can possibly go wrong?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Saturday morning, the day of the pageant, Deborah awoke with feelings of both excitement and apprehension. She was reluctant to get out of bed, but duty forced her to rouse herself, and she struggled to sit up as Molly Kemerton came in with a cup of tea.

  “You shouldn’t be waiting on me, Mum!” She pushed her heavy fringe out of her eyes.

  “This is your big day, love. You’ve been working so hard for this. Your Dad and I will walk down to the green later this morning. I have to admit that I’m quite excited about it myself.” She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her daughter. “Josh telephoned last night. I had to tell him you were out, but he said it didn’t matter and that he’d see you today. What happened with you and Bernard last night?”

  Deborah sipped her tea and shuddered. “Oh, Mum, it was awful. Bernard wants me to go back to London with him—”

  “But I thought you said that was what you were going to do—”

  “London, yes, but not with Bernard. He was almost begging me. He was just telling me that I could have my old job back when Clara Babbacombe came in saying that Alan had broken his arm, so Bernard said he’d take his place in the pageant, and before I could say anything Clara was thanking us both and arranging for me to take Bernard to the meeting place this morning.”

  “So is that what you’re going to do?”

  “I haven’t any choice. Clara Babbacombe was hailing Bernard as the saviour of the pageant!”

  “No, I mean about your old job in London. Are you going to take it?”

  “Well, it was good money and would do while I found something else.”

  “And what about Bernard? I know your father doesn’t like him but the boy must be keen to keep coming down here to see you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mum, everything’s so…” Deborah bit her lip. “I told Bernard I’d give him an answer today.” She glanced at the clock. “He’s calling for me, so I’d better get moving.”

  Molly Kemerton gave her head a slight shake as she moved to the door. “Just be careful, Deborah. You don’t have to rush into anything.”

  The toot of a horn told Deborah that Bernard was at the door. He grinned at her as she climbed into the car beside him.

  “So how’s my girl this morning?”

  “I am not your girl. I’m just showing you the way to the pub.”

  “That’s if we can ever pull away,” Bernard muttered, hunching over the wheel. “I didn’t think Moreton was ever this busy.”

  “It will be the market traders, mostly, and maybe a few people coming in to see the procession.”

  The sky was overcast, and a stiff breeze was blowing over the large car park of the Happy Landings, where the lorries for the floats had assembled, decorated with flags and banners for the occasion. Anne greeted Deborah and Bernard with a distracted smile.

  “Hi, Debs. Alan’s handed all his notes over to me, so I’m doing my best to organise everyone. Is this the young man who is going to be Alan’s replacement?” She held out her hand. “Welcome to Bedlam. We’re not due to set off from here until eleven, and Jane Lovett from the stables has phoned to say she’ll bring the horse up about ten. Clara is sorting costumes in the pub, and they’ve laid on tea and coffee for us, if you want a cup before you get changed. Deborah—have you got a moment to help out? Most of the Brownies and Cubs have arrived, but there’s no one to look after them. I wonder if you could round up some of the older Guides and Scouts as minders…”

  As the morning wore on the chaos increased. The vicar was helping Godfrey Mullett to organise the floats into the correct sequence, while Les Cookham, leader of Moreton Brass Band, complained to Anne that their flatbed lorry was much too small, and Moses, a portly matron resplendent in purple bedsheets, wandered up and down past the floats, asking if anyone had seen the Ten Commandments. Once Brown Owl arrived, Deborah helped her gather the Cubs and Brownies into the children’s room. They spent the next half hour turning them into angels and fixing tea towels over the heads of the Scouts and Guides to indicate that they were either Philistines or Egyptians.

  She heard the throaty roar of an exhaust and looked up to see a lime-green car pulling up. As Josh eased himself out, she recognised his companions as the other members of Four Front. With a blast of the car horn they zoomed away, and Josh headed for the pub to get his costume. He passed the door of the children’s room but although he gave Deborah a quick wave, he didn’t stop.

  Her spirits drooped. They hadn’t seen each other for nearly a week, and he hadn’t even bothered to speak to her. Of course she knew why—he would be feeling guilty, ashamed that he’d traded information about her parents to get a restaurant of his own from Alan Thorpe.

  Looking out the window, Deborah could see Bernard leaning against the bonnet of his car, talking into his mobile phone. He’d come down from London with one aim, to take her back with him. He was confident, successful and used to getting his own way. She was flattered he still wanted her, but the knowledge didn’t cheer her at all. In fact, she had never felt more desolate in her life.

  Anne frowned over Alan’s notes while Les Cookham hovered at her shoulder.

  “Let’s see, Samson’s float is that one with the polystyrene pillars, then there’s Moses, so according to this the band should be on…Oh, now I see what’s happened,” she said at last. “David and Goliath have got your float. Let’s go and ask them to swap everything over.”

  A few minutes’ discussion and it was all arranged. Anne watched as a contingent of Scouts removed the cardboard walls of Jericho and hurriedly rebuilt them on the bigger trailer.

  “This one’s much better,” Les remarked as he lifted the chairs up onto the float. “Plenty of room here. After all, wouldn’t want to lose the second trombone halfway through a Souza!”

  A number of well-wishers had turned up to watch the proceedings, and Anne found herself constantly removing extraneous dogs and small children from the floats. Rita Tring arrived with Hilda Gresham, carrying several large boxes.

  Rita beamed at Anne. “Right, where do you want the Ten Commandments? I know officially they were written on only two tablets of stone, but we thought if we made extra cakes we could give pieces out to the crowd after—for a donation, of course.”

  “What? Oh, yes, great idea.” Anne pointed. “There. That lorry’s for you. The pile of sandbags is Mount Sinai. You can store your cakes on there while you go and get changed.”

  “Right.” Rita turned, and as she did so she caught sight of Yvonne making her way to her float. “Oh, my God, what does she look like?”

  Anne blinked. “Sorry?”

  “That Willetts woman. Look at that dress, neckline cut open to the navel. Who does she think she is, Liz Taylor? Someone should tell ’er she’s playing Delilah the slag, not Cleopatra.”

  Anne smiled but thought it prudent not to say anything. Rita went off to store her cakes and Anne glanced down at her lists again. The
wind tugged at her hair, sending it across her face to block her vision.

  “Hello.”

  Cruel fingers seemed to twist at her insides as she recognised the voice. Misery and the memory of one marvellous, passionate night and hideously disastrous morning ran through her body in a mix of hot steam and icy water. She turned slowly. Toby sidestepped a child carrying a large and unstable ice cream and stood looking at her, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched against the wind.

  Anne found some relief in anger. “What are you doing here? Offering your services as historical adviser, perhaps. I’m sure if you try hard enough you’ll find something to criticise!”

  “Anne, I wanted to apologise. What I said—”

  “What you said was unforgivable,” she told him in a low voice.

  “I know, and I’m sorry. I was hurt, when I thought that you’d used me—but later, when I thought it over, I knew I was wrong.”

  A small hand tugged at her jumper. “Mrs. Lindsay, Brown Owl wants to know when we can get on the lorry.”

  “Not yet, Jasmine. We have to wait until everyone is ready.” She turned back to Toby. “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t have time for this now. This pageant is far too important to me, despite your efforts to sabotage it!” She turned away, but not before she’d seen the hurt in his face.

  “D’you mind if I hang around, watch the procession?”

  Looking at her formidable list of notes and aware of the chaos around her, Anne felt close to panic. “I don’t care what you do,” she said crossly.

  “Anne! How’s it going?” Alan Thorpe was walking up to her, one arm held across his chest in a white sling.

  She gave a small cry of relief. “Alan, thank God you’re here! We’re nowhere near ready. Ross McCready is sick and can’t make it, and there’s no sign of Jane Lovett yet with that damned horse—”

  “Don’t worry, Godfrey can look after the Scouts, can’t you Godfrey?” He raised his voice to attract the older man’s attention.