‘It can’t be that bad, surely? Was it a man?’
The tears trickled unbidden down Lola’s cheeks. ‘He died. Last year.’
‘Oh, how awful. I’m so sorry.’
Posy wanted to touch Lola’s hand in a gesture of sympathy. This was far, far worse than damn Ritchie cheating on her. Lola must have been left completely destitute. There had probably been death duties, or monstrous debts, or something financially terrible – her knowledge of what happened after a partner’s death was pretty much second-hand.
‘And couldn’t you stay in the house that you shared? Because of the memories?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
Money troubles definitely, Posy thought, as well as grief. Poor, poor Lola. Deciding to throw caution to the wind and hang the expense, Posy picked up both glasses and, much to Hogarth’s delight, rushed to the bar for refills. This wasn’t a moment for penny-pinching.
‘Thanks . . .’ Lola swigged at the second G&T without even glancing at the smeared tumbler, ‘It’s very kind. And what about you? Same sort of thing?’
‘Oh, no, nothing nearly so awful. Mine just married someone else.’
‘Mine already was.’
‘What?’ Posy frowned.
‘Married to someone else. He wasn’t my husband, you see, so when he died I was left with nothing.’
Posy stared at Lola across the slightly uneven rim of the tumbler. This woman, this elegant, beautiful woman was another bloody Sonia nee Tozer! A man-stealer! And she’d been feeling sorry for her!
She sat back in her chair, wobbling slightly as not all four of its legs touched the carpet at the same time. ‘Well, sorry, but don’t you think his wife, um, widow, might have some sort of right to be slightly more upset than you?’
‘Knowing his wife, no, not really.’
‘But I know what it feels like to be made a fool of. How could you cheat on –?’
Lola stood up, pushing back her chair so quickly that it fell over. The Pinks applauded. She wrapped the black jacket tightly round her. ‘Look, this really is none of your business. You can’t begin to understand, and I shouldn’t have said anything.’
Not even bothering to finish her drink, Lola stiffly righted the fallen chair and headed for the door. Posy glared after her. Hogarth, leaning on his elbows amongst the spillage stains, had his mouth open.
The Crooked Sixpence’s dim, dark atmosphere plunged even deeper into depression as the door slammed shut behind Lola, leaving the unrelenting ticking of the grandmother clock slicing through the silent misery.
Posy stared angrily into her tumbler, once more feeling very, very alone. Oh, God – she’d insulted a Sunny Dene guest! Lola was probably on her way out of the B&B at that very moment. Dilys and Norrie would kill her. And despite the bliss of Ellis’s kiss, she realized that she still wanted Ritchie so much that it hurt.
Without warning, the Pinks suddenly erupted en masse from their corner, and shuffled towards the bar. Martha and Mary creakingly regrouped as Neddy whipped out his accordion.
Before anyone could stop them, they wheezed raucously into a ripsnorting version of ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’.
Chapter Eight
As the chill morning rain swirled across the common, Norrie beamed happily at Lola.
‘I understand Posy has offered you a lift into Reading? The BMW is amazing, you’ll love it, I’m sure. And I do hope you enjoyed your brief stay with us?’
‘Oh, er, yes, very much, thank you.’ Lola gathered her suitcases and cardboard boxes together under Sunny Dene’s porch, and thought longingly of a smooth luxurious fast ride away from Steeple Fritton ensconced in BMW luxury. ‘But I think the arrangements may have altered a bit. With Posy, that is.’
Norrie whistled the dogs to heel, unfurling his umbrella. ‘Really? I’m sure she said she’d offered. I know she’s going into Reading –’
‘Later, I think she said. Not until this afternoon or something.’ Lola smiled at Norrie, knowing that the smile didn’t reach her eyes. It barely reached the corners of her mouth.
She simply had to get away before she bumped into Posy again. She knew she couldn’t cope with another barrage of censure. It had been her own fault, of course: giving away too much too soon and to a complete stranger.
It was just that Posy had been friendly, and it seemed so long since she’d had a friend; and an unexpected girlie night out, albeit in that dingy pub, was one of the nicest things that had happened to her for months. How the hell was she supposed to have known that Posy was yet another member of the Wronged Women of the World club?
‘You could always get a taxi,’ Norrie said, barging into her thoughts, as the dogs danced impatiently round his legs. ‘Mind, it’ll have to be from somewhere else because we don’t have a taxi service round here. And of course, Dilys’s car is off the road, otherwise she’d have been pleased to oblige.’
‘What about buses?’
‘Not today, I’m afraid. There’ll be one tomorrow about three-ish – maybe.’
Lola groaned. Having spent a sleepless night in Sunny Dene’s admittedly gorgeous bedroom, and having managed to eat none of the continental breakfast she’d asked for, all she really wanted to do now was to get away from Steeple Fritton and start her new life as soon as possible. But how?
As Posy was obviously out of the question it looked like it would have to be a taxi – and she could scarcely afford the bus fare.
‘Right on cue,’ Norrie raised his voice as the garage doors opened and Posy peered out. ‘Ms Wentworth here thought you weren’t going into Reading until this afternoon.’
‘Did she? I wonder why.’
‘There!’ Norrie rubbed his hands together and nodded at Lola. ‘All sorted. You can go with Posy after all.’
Posy, looking decidedly unfriendly and very threatening in black leather, raised her eyebrows, ‘If you still want a lift the offer still stands. Getting out of here is virtually impossible and as we’ll never see one another again I don’t suppose it will matter too much.’
Norrie looked puzzled as Posy ducked back into the garage. Lola sighed again, swallowed the ‘Not on your bloody life’ that was bubbling to her lips, and called after her. ‘Yes, well, under the circumstances, thank you, I’d be very grateful, and . . . Good God! I’m not getting on that thing! I’ve never ridden a motorbike in my life!’
Posy hauled the monstrous peacock blue and vibrant pink machine on to its stand.
‘Seems like a good time to start, then, if you want to get to Reading this morning, that is.’
‘But I’ve got all my luggage! And it’s raining! And Norrie said you had a BMW.’
‘He did. I have. This is it.’
Lola stared at the motorbike and then at Posy with growing irritation. Oh, this was the final straw.
Posy had now clambered astride the bike and tipped back her visor. ‘You could always leave your stuff here, come into Reading with me on the pillion, then if you find a job I’ll bring you back for your luggage.’
Norrie beamed. ‘Sounds a good plan to me. There, isn’t that lovely to be sorted? It’s been nice having you to stay, my dear. Good luck in your job hunting.’ Whistling Trevor and Kenneth to heel, the trio splashed off across the common for their morning constitutional. Just before they all disappeared from view, Norrie turned and raised his hand in farewell. ‘And any time you’re back this way, you’ll know where to come, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Lola waved back. ‘But I hope it won’t be necessary.’
‘Me too.’ Posy’s fingers were poised on the ignition key. ‘So? Are you coming with me or not?’
Lola glanced down at the knee-length pencil skirt and the kitten-heeled shoes she’d worn so that she’d look suitable for employment. The rain had already flattened her hair, and the icy wind was cutting through her stockings. ‘I can’t, well, not dressed like this and I haven’t got a crash helmet and anyway, we’ll probably be killed.’
‘Suit you
rself,’ Posy shrugged inside her leather jacket. ‘But there don’t seem to be many other options. Look, I really do have to go, I’ve got an interview at nine.’
‘Then go. Please. I’ll sort something out, get a taxi and, er, about last night –’
Posy gave a squashed-up frown from inside her helmet. ‘Let’s not talk about it. We’re never going to meet again. We’ll just agree to differ on the subject, okay?’
‘I just wanted you to know –’ But Lola’s words were drowned by the roar of the BMW’s engine as Posy skimmed off the shingle drive and soared away.
She sighed again. She’d probably sighed more in the last two weeks than in the whole of her life. Posy had gone, Norrie was out of sight, Dilys was no doubt rewiring electrical appliances throughout the glories of Sunny Dene, and Steeple Fritton was deserted. As the rain and wind increased, Lola felt the loneliness roll back in.
‘You looking for a lift somewhere?’ A cheerful voice sliced through the sadness as a sleek white Dormobile pulled to a splashy halt outside Sunny Dene. A young man with dark hair and even darker eyes was beaming at her. ‘You going to Reading?’
Lola blinked nervously. Was she desperate enough to risk her fate in the hands of a White Van Man? Deciding that she was, she nodded. ‘Yes, actually, I am.’
‘Well, then, actually, so are we.’
‘How much is this going to cost me?’
‘Depends what currency you’re offering.’ The Dormobile’s door slid open and the driver, who looked far too young and trendy to be buried alive in Steeple Fritton, started heaving her luggage into its interior. He grinned at her. ‘Nothing. It’ll cost you nothing. This is my maiden voyage. All passengers travel free today.’ Peering inside, Lola was relieved to notice that the Dormobile was apparently already packed to the roof with people. And if it was dry and free . . .
‘All aboard the Skylark!’ A voice cackled from the front passenger seat. ‘Shove up there, Tatty, and make room for the young lady.’
For a moment, Lola hesitated. Maybe this wasn’t a wise move. Okay, with a busload she was less likely to be ravished by the beautiful black-eyed boy, but this could well be a day trip for Steeple Fritton’s less-stable residents.
She hauled herself up on to the step, the tight skirt not aiding her progress, stared at her fellow passengers, and knew that it was.
Three women of mixed ages stared at her; at least half a dozen children who appeared to be in fancy dress were tethered in the back seats; and the Dormobile’s radio reverberated to a cacophony of 1960s bubblegum music.
Lola had already formulated apologies for changing her mind. However, just as she attempted to take a backward step, the driver had hurled her luggage on top of the children, and was now helping her negotiate her way inside the Dormobile with a lot of quite unnecessary body contact.
Stumbling amongst an assortment of damp footwear and sitting as elegantly as possible next to the youngest of the three women who had black tendrilly hair like early-Cher and was dressed in layers of lace and velvet, Lola nodded her resigned thanks to the driver.
‘No problem.’ His eyes lingered on her legs and the ten denier black stockings. ‘Nice to have a new, er, face.’
Grinning with what Lola considered was excess familiarity, he slid the door shut, bounded round to the driver’s side and leapt in behind the wheel. Within seconds they were mobile, and leaving a cloud of spray in its wake, the Dormobile bounced merrily away from Steeple Fritton.
The elderly woman in the front seat eased herself round and beamed over a skeletal shoulder. The shoulder, Lola noticed, was of threadbare brown wool and covered in hairs, none of which matched those protruding from beneath its owner’s tartan headscarf.
‘I’m Glad Blissit, this –’ she patted the driver on his well-muscled shoulder, ‘is my grandson, Ellis, and them –’ a nod in the direction of the women, ‘is Tatty Spry, she’s the hippie one, and Rose Lusty.’
Lola smiled nervously at everyone. The children had fought their way out from under her suitcases and were singing along to the bubblegum music. It would, Lola thought, have been a touch more melodic if they’d all been singing the same tune.
‘The kiddies belong to Tatty,’ Glad said cheerfully, ‘and various blokes.’
Tatty, the velvet and lace woman, looked rather proud at this scurrilous statement.
‘You ain’t a pop singer, I suppose?’ Glad raised her voice as the Dormobile lurched round a leafy bend and the children cheered.
Lola shook her head. Oh, God – being killed on Posy’s motorbike was looking really, really enticing compared to this.
The brown shoulders twitched. ‘No, didn’t think so. You’m a bit too long in the tooth. Film star?’
Again Lola shook her head. Next to her, Tatty laughed. Rose Lusty, the third member of the trio, who looked like Margaret Thatcher in her blue suit and matching handbag days, didn’t. The bubblegum tune was insisting that ‘Simon Says’ and the children, despite the lack of space, were executing the arm movements dextrously immediately behind Lola’s head.
Glad clicked her dentures together with an air of disappointment. ‘What are you then?’
‘Gran,’ Ellis admonished gently. ‘Don’t be so nosy.’ He glanced at Lola through the driving mirror, the black eyes amused. ‘Gran gets Hello and OK! by subscription. It’s her lifetime ambition to discover Madonna or Britney Spears living on the Cressbeds council estate.’
‘’S’all right for you, young Ellis. You gets out and about. We don’t see no life in Steeple Fritton these days.’ Glad yanked herself round again with a lot of grunting and sighing, and clouds of dust puffing up from the depths of the worn brown coat. ‘So, who are you?’
‘Lola Wentworth.’
‘Lola? Lola? LOLA?’ Glad rocked gleefully backwards and forwards as the children picked up the name-theme and started humming alternate snatches of Barry Manilow and the Kinks. ‘You’re a stripper!’
Dear Jesus! Lola exhaled. ‘I am not a stripper.’ She glared at the still-chanting children. ‘Nor am I a showgirl or a damn lady-boy.’
Ellis gave her a look of sympathy through the mirror.
Glad clicked her teeth again. ‘What are you, then? And what are you doing here?’
Getting out as fast as I can, Lola thought, watching the countryside disappear in a sheet of torrential rain as the Dormobile hit the bypass. Ellis’s driving was nothing if not terrifying. There had been no careful approach from the slip road into the flow of traffic. He’d just pointed the white van towards the melee and put his foot to the floor. The children had clapped enthusiastically.
‘You might as well answer her,’ Ellis said, taking his eyes unnervingly from the road. ‘She won’t give up until she’s got the full story.’
Lola worked some saliva into her mouth, amazed both that the Dormobile was still intact and that they were still alive. She had to shout above the roar of the engine and the intrusion of ‘Quick Joey Small’ from the stereo. It was a small mercy that the children had quickly tired of the Lola songs.
‘Well, actually, there’s nothing to tell. I met Dilys on the bus after a little mishap yesterday and she kindly invited me to stay overnight at the B&B – and now I’m going to look for a job in Reading.’
Even the children were silent.
‘Dearie me . . .’ Rose Lusty spoke for the first time. ‘You haven’t heard then?’
‘Heard what?’
Glad swivelled round again. ‘About the job situation in Reading. All them techno kiddies that used to be employed by the mobile phone and computer companies have flooded the market. You won’t get nothing, specially not at your age.’
Lola flinched. The Dormobile was cheek by jowl with an articulated lorry. When the threat of imminent death had passed she shrugged. ‘I don’t think that’ll be a problem. I’m not looking for anything technical – I thought I’d go into hotel work or caring . . .’
Glad and Rose chuckled together. Tatty Spry shook back a lot of spira
lly hair and freed several silver necklaces which had become entangled in her lace blouse. ‘Any live-in type vacancy within a fifty-mile radius has been filled by the call-centre redundancies, I’m afraid. And there are waiting lists stretching into the next millennium. Silicon Valley might as well be renamed Death Valley. You couldn’t have come to a worse area for jobs.’
Deciding that hurling herself from the Dormobile into the two lanes of fast-flowing traffic was the only solution to her mounting problems, Lola was just about to ask Ellis to stop and let her out, when he swerved off the dual carriageway, tore along a concrete road and stood on the brakes.
‘Nursery! School! Now! Go!’
The children immediately stopped singing, unfastened themselves, gathered together various lunchboxes and bags and waterproof coats, and slithered across the seats like slinky puppies. Tatty Spry kissed each one vaguely and waved as they sauntered, the older ones fussing the youngest, through the school gates.
‘Is it a non-uniform day?’ Lola asked Rose Lusty, as she seemed the most normal of the trio, having watched the ragbag tribe disappear.
‘That is Tatty’s idea of uniform,’ Rose sniffed. ‘Those children go off every morning looking like a cross between gypsy violinists and the Bisto Kids.’
‘They can fight like weasels, though,’ Glad cackled over her shoulder. ‘Just as well what with the way they’re dressed and being called Marmaduke and Orlando and Zebedee and what have you. Poor little mites.’
Tatty stirred from her dreamy stupor and shook her head. ‘I think you’ve got that wrong. They don’t ever fight, Glad, dear. They’re pacifists.’
‘Pacifists what can pack a mighty punch then,’ Glad huffed into her front-facing position, I’ve seen ’em kicking seven bells out of each other on the common.’
Lola closed her eyes. She’d wake up in a moment and everything – from the moment of Nigel’s death – would turn out to be a Dallas-type dream. She opened her eyes and was horrified to find that it wasn’t.
Tickled Pink Page 9
