by JL Merrow
“I know, darling.” Gary took a sip of his martini, smiled, and set down his glass. “But I’m not silly enough to believe you.”
The week went by without any further skeletons toppling out of closets, for which I, for one, was bloody grateful. Phil got over himself—by which I mean his family—and came round to mine for tea more often than not, although he was busy a couple of nights with work.
We didn’t talk about the Mysteriously Cheating Mark. To be honest, I was still struggling to get my head round it myself. I mean seriously, if you had Phil waiting for you at home, would you really bother looking around for a bit on the side? Depending, obviously, on your personal orientation. Me, well. Don’t get me wrong, if anyone asked, I was totally up for a thirty-two-some with the England rugby squad. But as for anything remotely likely to ever happen, what’d be the point? Phil was tall, built, and gorgeous, and what’s more, he knew what I liked. And, well, I loved him, didn’t I?
I nearly asked Phil about moving in a couple of times, but the moment never seemed quite right.
It wasn’t that important, anyhow. We’d sort it all out once we’d got a bit further with planning the wedding.
The day of the Harvest Fayre dawned bright, sunny, and warm, with the prospect, so the girl on the telly told me, of clear skies all day. It was the sort of British summer’s day it would have been nice to have in the actual summer, instead of tacked on in the autumn when the kiddies were back at school and the shops were already starting to get their Christmas stuff in. I’d have suspected Greg of having had a word with the bloke upstairs if I hadn’t thought it more likely Mrs. F-M. had performed some arcane ritual of her own. At any rate, there was no chance of me getting out of whatever she had planned for me now.
All right, I could have simply not turned up. I just wasn’t certain Cherry would ever speak to me again if I didn’t go along to do my bit for the needy of St. Leonards and, more importantly, Greg’s career.
“So what is it you’re doing at this thing?” Phil rumbled in my ear, his arms around my waist while I buttered a slice of toast. He’d stayed over Friday night.
“Buggered if I know. S’pose I’ll find out when I get there. With a bit of luck, it’ll just be an hour or two manning the bar, and then we can skip off together. Unless you’ve got a secret passion for Morris dancing? I mean, there’s got to be Morris dancers, right? Big event like St. Leonards Harvest Fayre, there might even be competing teams having a dance-off.” A stray thought struck me. “Oi, your surname’s Morrison, innit? So does that mean, way back in the mists of time, one of your ancestors was a Morris dancer?”
Phil gave me a look. “I’d have thought you’d be the last person to make assumptions based on anyone’s surname.”
“Fair point. But were they?”
“If they were, they had the decency to keep quiet about it so as not to embarrass the descendants, all right?”
“What are you saying, here? It’s a very manly pursuit, Morris dancing. Some of ’em have really big sticks.”
“Like a man with a big stick, do you?”
The conversation sort of degenerated even further after that, which is my excuse for rolling up at the Harvest Fayre a good hour or so after the official start time of twelve noon. Well, if dear old Amelia had needed me there earlier, she should have said so. Or, you know, said word bloody one to me. In touch with further details, my arse.
The fayre was being held on the St. Leonards playing fields, which had the advantage over the cathedral grounds of (a) being bigger, (b) having a lot more space to park cars, and (c) not being filled with gravestones, which could have put a bit of a damper on the general festive atmosphere. Or maybe not, who knows? Maybe some people would have liked to think Grandad and Great Auntie Mary had some part in the proceedings, even if it was only as a convenient spot to perch with your picnic.
Phil parked the Golf at the end of a long, wonky line of cars, as directed by a beaming volunteer in a straw hat and what I presumed was a olde-worlde farmer’s smock, although it looked an awful lot like the white robe things the cathedral choir had been wearing over their red frocks that one time Cherry had tricked me into coming to evensong. Then we strolled over to the fayre, which was in full swing. The air was full of the smell of barbecuing meat, mixed in with the spicier aroma coming from a brightly coloured bunny chow stall that seemed to be doing a roaring trade over by the ice cream van.
I was beginning to regret having had a proper fry-up for breakfast. Still, we’d be here for a good few hours; plenty of time to work up an appetite.
“Why d’you reckon they call it bunny chow, anyway?” I asked idly as we passed the South African stall. “It’s not like there’s any actual bunnies in it. I checked, that time they had the food fair in St. Albans.”
Phil shrugged. “It comes with rabbit food on the side? It’s served in a bun? What am I, Wiki-bloody-pedia? Anyway, hadn’t you better find this Fenchurch-Majors woman and find out what your duties are before you get stuck into lunch?”
“Killjoy.” I looked around. Besides the stalls and the bouncy slides and stuff for the kiddies, there was a large area in the middle of the field that’d been fenced off with bunting and hay bales, which were doubling as seats for spectators. Not that there were all that many of them for the current act. You had to feel sorry for the poor girl, although to be honest, if I’d been planning to put on a hula hoop display—or any other kind—I’d definitely have brushed up on my skills beforehand.
There was a small gazebo set up at one end, with audio equipment that was currently blaring out hula-girl’s music to the crowd. “She’s probably up there somewhere. Wanna come, or shall I catch you later?”
Phil huffed. “You’re on your own. I don’t fancy getting roped into anything.”
“Hey, it’s all for a good cause, you know. Food for the needy and all that bollocks. Anyone would think you wanted people to starve.”
He smirked. “Nice try, but I’ll be doing my bit by putting my hand in my pocket going round the stalls. See you later.” He disappeared off to the right, probably to grab a beer and put a quid or two on the ferret racing. Lucky bastard.
I sighed and followed the call of duty.
Course, I didn’t see any particular reason to hurry. Might as well have a look around first.
I soon spotted the Morris dancers. There was a team of ’em (or do I mean a troupe? What’s the word for a bunch of Morris dancers, anyhow? A jingling?) leaping around already over by the Dogs Trust stall. They had their own music to compete with the stuff blaring out over the speakers, courtesy of a bloke with an accordion. When you got close enough, it was actually pretty good at drowning out the piped stuff.
There were a couple of familiar figures among the onlookers, so I veered that way. Well, it was only polite to say hi, wasn’t it? The fact it would put off, for just that little bit longer, getting lumbered with whatever duties dear old Amelia saw fit to dump on me was just a fringe benefit.
“Gary,” I called out once I was in hailing distance of him and Julian. Which was closer than you’d think, given the racket that accordion was making. “What brings you out all this way?”
“Tommy, darling.” Gary greeted me with the usual hug/smooch combo—he’s been leaving off the playful little grope part ever since becoming, in his own words, a staid old married man. Although seeing as how him and Darren had hinted more than once they’d be up for a foursome with me and Phil if we fancied it (we really didn’t), I reckoned staid was a relative term. “Isn’t it obvious?” He waved at the blokes in bells currently capering on the grass in front of us.
I looked. Then I looked again, in a classic double take that had Gary chortling into his bunny chow. “Bloody hell, is that Darren?”
It was, too: all four foot nine of him, done up in whites and bells and those funny-coloured tassel things they wear, and with a straw hat on top. He was currently banging sticks with a bloke around twice his height.
“Doesn’t he just
look so virile?” Gary gushed.
“That’s . . . one way of putting it.” To be fair, he was probably the best-looking one of the lot, most of whom had clearly been working on the middle-aged spread for a while now. You’d think all that jumping around would keep ’em a bit trimmer, but then again, from what I hear Morris tradition tends to include the odd pint or six after a show. “How long’s he been doing this, then?”
“Oh, he used to do it all the time, but he’s only recently taken up his staff once more. Fortunately the St. Leonards Stompers dance Cotswold style, like his old side. You can’t just learn those dances at the drop of a hat, you know. It takes intensive training.”
Especially for a bloke whose staff was as tall as he was, I wouldn’t mind betting. “He’s kept that quiet.”
“He does like to be a dark horse. Although not literally.”
“What? Oh.” Gary’s remark was explained as a bloke wearing a giant black papier-mâché horse’s head with a big cloak attached ran in with a whinny and started prancing around among the dancers. “Yeah, I wouldn’t fancy his job, either, not with all those staffs flying around.” I winced as one of ’em missed his pointy ears by a whisker.
“Staves, Tommy dearest, staves. Like in music.”
And there I’d been all proud of myself for not calling them sticks. The dance ended, and we clapped. Darren nodded to me, but stayed with his fellow dancers as a bloke in a waistcoat it looked like he’d made himself collected up the sticks—sorry, staves. Then it was hankies aweigh as the accordion player struck up the next dance.
From the suspiciously moist gleam of husbandly pride in Gary’s eye as he watched, the dancers had better watch out or he’d be stealing their hankies to have a good blow. “Got to go, mate,” I yelled in his ear.
“Going to prepare yourself for your big moment?” Gary nodded wisely. “Say no more. I’ll see you later. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Uh, yeah.” I was starting to have a bad feeling about this. Maybe I did ought to hurry it up a bit and find out exactly what Mrs. F-M. had me in for.
I tracked her down, as expected, under the gazebo up by the speakers. Amelia was dressed today in a chic floral silk frock I wouldn’t mind betting she normally kept ’specially for garden parties, polo matches, and days at the races. Her shoes were still sky-high but were strappy wedges rather than stilettos, a note of practicality I wouldn’t have expected given what she was willing to do to her own wood floors.
She fixed me with a look of calm disapproval. “There you are. You missed the bishop’s opening address. It was very inspirational. Oh, and who was that man you came in with? The tall, well-built blond?”
She’d seen us all the way across the field? The woman had eyes like a hawk. I glanced down, and yeah, she had the red-painted talons to match. “Phil. My fiancé.” Still felt weird saying it.
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, tell him I need him at four. We’re short of a few strong men for the tug-of-war.”
Heh. I was looking forward to telling Phil he hadn’t escaped after all. “Yeah, no problem. He’ll be glad to help you out,” I lied through my teeth. Then a thought struck. “Uh, I’d volunteer myself, yeah, but you know. Dodgy hip.”
The second eyebrow joined its mate. “Oh. No, I wasn’t planning to ask you.”
Ouch.
“But I hope you’re all ready for your demonstration.”
“Uh . . . my what now?”
“Your demonstration,” she said ultra-distinctly for the clearly hard-of-thinking. “We’ve just put you down as Psychic, as you didn’t give me any further details of what you’d be doing.” There was a note of disapproval in her voice.
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. It threatened to drop out of my bloody bottom too. “Wait a minute. You’re expecting me to put on a show? Like some cut-price Mystic Meg? No way. No way.”
Mrs. F-M. smiled. It was all teeth. “You assured me I could count on you.”
“Yeah, to lend a hand with the barbecue or something. Not to go on stage like a bloody performing monkey.”
Her smile didn’t falter. It was well creepy, given the venom in her tone. “If you didn’t want to do it, you should have made your feelings known earlier. We can’t change the programme now. You’re down for the arena at three, after the birds of prey.”
She’d put it down in the programme and all? I could kill her.
Maybe I could borrow a raptor from the birds of prey people to do it for me.
“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do out there?”
“A demonstration, obviously.” She shrugged, somehow making it look fake even though I was pretty sure the indifference was actually genuine. “Find things. You’re only on for half an hour. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
She turned away. Subject closed. Put up or shut up.
Christ. I reeled away from the gazebo feeling in dire need of a bit of moral support, possibly of the liquid variety.
No, scratch that. This was serious. I needed moral support of the tall, blond, and broody variety.
At least with his height, he was easy to spot. Phil was over by the cake stall talking to Cherry, who was looking harried as she tried to stop little kiddies putting their fingers in the buttercream and nicking the smarties off the top of the cupcakes. “That’s fifty pence, please—no, fifty pence each. Thank you. Tom. Finally. I was beginning to worry you weren’t going to turn up.”
“Yeah, well if I’d known what bloody Amelia had me down for, I sodding well wouldn’t have.” I glared at Cherry so she’d know that yes, I did bloody well blame her for all this.
“What’s that?” Phil put in around a mouthful of cupcake. Typical. He’s always going on about me liking my food too much.
Cherry gave him a hard stare. “I hope you’ve paid for that.”
Phil looked a bit embarrassed and pulled out a handful of change.
“She only wants me to go on in that bloody arena and do tricks like a bloody performing seal, that’s what.”
“Well, I hope you’re going to clean your language up a bit when you go out there,” Cherry said with a sniff and a nod towards an elderly customer who was busy giving the fruitcake a critical squeeze and didn’t look in the least offended by my so-called profanity.
“I’m not going out there!”
Cherry picked up a cake knife. She didn’t exactly wave it threateningly in my direction, but the potential was definitely there. “Tom, you can’t back out now. The bishop is here.”
“I know. His opening address was very inspirational. Or so I’ve heard. But what the bloody hell’s that got to do with the price of fish? What’s he gonna do—excommunicate me?”
“You’re my brother. How’s it going to look if you embarrass everyone like this?”
“Oh, I like that. It’s fine for me to make a giant tit of myself doing something I never even agreed to in the first place, but perish the thought anyone else might be mildly inconvenienced!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Stop making such a drama out of it. We all have to do things we don’t want to.” Cherry looked daggers—or at least pastry knives—at yet another sticky-fingered tot. “If you’re not going to buy it, please don’t touch. Just look at it as a promotional opportunity for your business.”
Me and the kiddie exchanged confused glances as we tried to work out which bits of all that were meant for who. Then while the tot handed over a grubby fifty-pence piece, I grabbed up a fayre programme Cherry had shoved under a plate of shortbread. I flicked past all the local tradesmen’s ads (actually, come to think of it, why hadn’t I got an ad in there? That was the sort of promo opportunity I wouldn’t mind getting behind) to the middle. “Three o’clock . . . Psychic demonstration. Great. It hasn’t even got my name in. What sort of bloody promo is that?”
Phil huffed a laugh down my collar, and I turned to glare at him. “What’s so bloody funny?”
“What were you expecting—The Great Paretski? You’d h
ave been well pissed off if she’d put that in there.”
“That’s not the point,” I muttered, narked at him for being right. “What the hell am I supposed to do? They’re going to be expecting some stage magician with a load of patter and tricks like Derren Brown. I can’t do any of that crap!”
Phil shrugged. “Just give ’em some guff about the dowsing side. Tell ’em water divining is an ancient and honourable art. All that bollocks. Then give ’em a quick demo and call it a day.”
“A demo? Just how am I supposed to do that? Get someone to bury a bottle of Evian?”
“You can’t go round digging up the playing fields,” Cherry put in earnestly. “The parish councillors would be furious. No, fifty pence each. Thank you.”
“We could get someone to hide something somewhere on the field, but not too far from the arena,” Phil suggested. “It’d have to be someone above suspicion of collusion.”
“Right, Cherry’d better go sweet-talk the bish, then.” I gave her a significant look.
Sis reddened. “I’m really not sure he’d think it was theologically sound. And Gregory and you are too closely connected,” she added, heading me off at the pass.
I sighed. “Bloody marvellous. All right, how about your dear chum Amelia, then? Seeing as all this was her idea in the first place?”
“I can’t ask her,” Cherry complained. “Who’d look after the cake stall?”
“Phil can do it,” I said with a smile. “He won’t mind.”
“He won’t, will he not?” Phil asked. “And what are you going to be doing while all this is going on?”
“Me? I’m going to be on my phone. Trying to memorise the Wikipedia article on bloody dowsing.”
Despite throwing me a clear do I have to? face, Sis agreed to sort something out with Mrs. F-M. and headed off. “And make sure she steers clear of the hook-a-duck pool,” I shouted after her, garnering a few odd looks from passersby.
All right, it was only a kiddies’ paddling pool filled with water and some faded plastic ducks, but it could still mess with the vibes.
