Ellis started the Dormobile again and headed towards the main road. ‘Next stop, shops.’ He grinned over his shoulder at Lola. ‘Is there anywhere in particular you want to go?’
She shook her head. She really didn’t have a clue. There had been vague notions of finding an information bureau which may provide her with a list of residential homes and hotels where she could perhaps find work or at least study her Daltons Weekly in peace. But now . . .
Ellis looked at her through the driving mirror. ‘After I’ve dropped Gran and the others off, I’ll have a think. Possibly the library would be your best bet. Or at least a good place to start.’
Lola muttered her thanks. He was a complete stranger and easily young enough to be her son: not unlike a lot of the boys who had come through the Marionette factory over the years, really. Looking all brash and modern on the outside, but kind and considerate beneath the surface. It was kind of him to try to help, even if there was absolutely no point at all.
Half an hour later, having deposited the trio of Tatty, Glad and Rose outside the shopping precinct, Ellis kept the Dormobile’s engine running and pointed through the happy-shopper throng. ‘The library is down there. I’d come with you but I can’t park here. They’re shit-hot on wheel clamping –’
Lola shuddered.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘I’m collecting the others in about three hours. If you leave your luggage in here you could come back for it then if you’ve had any joy.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’
‘No sweat. Hope you get sorted. Look, there’s a spare umbrella, too. You don’t want to get wet.’
And with a wink that Lola felt was totally inappropriate, Ellis roared away, leaving her to the mercies of yet another strange town.
As she stood in a state of bewilderment on the busy pavement, Lola couldn’t help wondering why Ellis had kissed his grandmother on the cheek, Rose Lusty on the hand, and Tatty Spry – who was probably old enough to be his mother – very lengthily on the mouth. She could almost swear there had been tongues involved, too. It really didn’t bear thinking about.
A veil of despondency was best draped decorously over the next three hours, Lola thought as she headed wearily back to the pick-up point, being bumped and barged at every turn by inconsiderate, cold and saturated shoppers. There was possibly nothing worse than trying to start a new life in a strange town when your spirits, morale and bank balance, were all at rock bottom.
She’d tried. At least she’d tried. She’d followed up all the leads given to her by the helpful librarian, had worn down her kitten heels tearing around unfamiliar streets to various employment agencies, had registered her details with every one of them – and come up against the same appalling stumbling block.
She, Lola Wentworth, mistress of Marionette Biscuits and self-assured career woman, was homeless. And without a permanent address she had no chance of finding a job – and without a job she had even less chance of finding a home.
Ricocheting through the throng towards the Dormobile, Lola felt she’d reached her lowest ebb. Apart from the fact that for each advertised vacancy there were apparently a dozen younger and better-qualified candidates all of whom had the advantage of references, there was now the added stigma of being classed as a street person.
How naive she’d been to believe that her lack of accommodation would be solved by finding a live-in post. Why hadn’t she realized that between application and acceptance there would be a gap – and that gap would need an address . . .
Ellis was sitting in the front seat of the Dormobile adjusting the speed of the windscreen wipers. A mini Niagara Falls was bouncing off the bonnet. He opened the door for her. ‘Any luck? No, obviously not. I can tell from your face. So, what are you going to do now?’
‘I haven’t got a bloody clue!’
‘Okay, okay.’ He held up his hands in supplication. ‘Don’t scream at me.’
‘Well don’t ask such fucking stupid questions!’ Lola stopped, aghast. She’d sworn. Aloud. In the street. She’d never done that in her life before. Never let her standards slip so low. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Ellis laughed. ‘It’s fine by me. At least it proves you’re as human as the rest of us. I did have my doubts. Shall we get a cup of coffee? You look cold and wet and thoroughly pissed off. You need a caffeine shot and we’ve got a while before the coven returns.’
Blinking back tears of anger and frustration and sheer depression, Lola nodded. ‘That would be very nice. Thank you. But what about the wheel clampers?’
‘I can keep an eye out of the window of the caff,’ Ellis indicated an adjacent brightly painted shop, its windows obliterated by hand-written marker pen menus. ‘It’ll be okay.’
Lola shuddered. ‘It doesn’t look, er, no, I’m sure it’ll be fine.’
‘It’ll be more than fine,’ Ellis slid from the Dormobile and indicated that Lola should follow him. ‘I discovered it a few days ago. They do the best coffee in the world. You could mortar bricks with the sludge at the bottom of the cup.’
Having never been in a greasy spoon in her life, Lola looked around with amazement. Plastered round the walls, obviously written by a small child with dyslexia, the menus extolled the virtue of cholesterol for all. The air was hot and clammy and she could almost taste the grease globules. The fumes wreathing from behind the Formica counter hit the ceiling, hovered like ectoplasm, then gushed forward joyously to envelop the diners. A lot of very large people seemed to be crammed on to very small chairs and were eating odd things like egg and chips with gravy.
However, Ellis had been right about one thing. The coffee was divine.
‘Eggs, chips, beans, mushrooms, fried slice . . . ?’ He looked at her. ‘Anything else you fancy?’
‘You’re going to eat in here?’
‘Of course. Ambrosia. Nectar. Er, oh, well, you know. What would you like?’
‘Just another coffee please. And have you got time for a meal, I mean, with the wheel clampers and the cov— um, your grandmother and her friends returning?’
‘I’m a very fast eater.’ Ellis flashed white teeth in a dazzling smile. ‘I like to do most things quickly.’
Lola had no idea why this remark should make her blush.
While Ellis demolished his mountain of food – fast, as he’d said, but not disgustingly so – it gave her the opportunity to make a decision. She’d have to return to Sunny Dene for another couple of days while she planned the rest of her life. The money would soon run out, Posy would ostracize her, and there wasn’t a suitable job for miles. While it was possibly marginally more alluring than sleeping on the streets, the stay in Steeple Fritton would be very temporary indeed.
Through the steamy window she could see the raggle-taggle trio approaching, each carrying masses of bags. It seemed bizarre in the extreme that all Glad’s should be labelled Next, Gap and Benetton.
‘Looks like we’re off again,’ Ellis said, draining his coffee cup and standing up.
Lola found herself staring at his lean and toned midriff as he shrugged into his denim jacket and quickly averted her eyes. ‘Thank you for the coffee. It was very kind of you. I do feel better.’
‘Good,’ Ellis gave her another inappropriate wink. ‘Pleased to be of service. And now that you’re going to be staying in Steeple Fritton for a while, why don’t you join me and Posy in the pub next Saturday night? We’re going to formulate a rescue package for the entire village.’
‘Really?’ Lola said without interest. The whole concept made her feel weary. ‘No, I don’t think so. After all, I won’t be staying long, and Posy and I don’t exactly see eye to eye.’
‘Oh, great, I love a cat fight.’ Ellis ushered her out into the street. The rain had turned to sleet and the wind was bitter. ‘Anyway, at least think about it. Next Saturday night, seven o’clock in The Crooked Sixpence. Don t forget. We’re going to change the world – or at least, Steeple Fritton.’
Lola looked in dismay at Glad, Ro
se and Tatty scrambling excitedly into the Dormobile. Ohio Express were already singing ‘Chewy Chewy’ at the tops of their nasal voices from the stereo.
‘Do we have to have that infantile music on now that the children have gone?’
Ellis grinned. ‘That’s nothing to do with the kids – I’m the world’s number one Bubblegum fan. Stick with me, babe, you’ll soon get used to it.’
Lola climbed into the Dormobile and wanted to cry.
Chapter Nine
Like liquid silk, the cold damp rain of the February evening slicked itself gently against his skin. Flynn Malone leaned against his dark red jeep and watched the lights of the Cork ferry, recently berthed in Swansea harbour, bob and sway out across the Irish Sea.
At least the weather made him feel at home: well, his most recent home in Tralee, that was. His real home, in Massachusetts, wouldn’t feel like this at all. He quickly pushed away all nostalgic thoughts of Charlestown, of New England, of his parents, of his friends, and particularly of Vanessa.
He’d left Boston six months earlier, and he’d left Tralee – he glanced at his watch in the gloom – oh, almost a day ago . . . And now he was on British soil for the first time in his life.
It should have been sooner, of course. He’d planned to stay in Ireland for only a couple of weeks; but once he’d got ensconced with Uncle Michael and Auntie Maude and the zillions of Malone relatives from all over the Republic who had flocked to the Tralee bar just to meet him, it had been so hard to say goodbye.
‘Excuse me, sir. Are you lost?’ A very young man in a too-big navy blue uniform and shiny cap with a peak that looked like a predatory bird, peered at him. The musical voice had a singsong ring. ‘Only you can’t park here. This is a no parking zone, see?’
‘Oh, right.’
The peaked cap tapped a clipboard. ‘Are you coming or going?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Flynn grinned then stopped. His Auntie Maude had warned him never to joke with English officialdom. He presumed Welsh officialdom was much the same thing, ‘I’ve just disembarked from the ferry and I’m sorta taking stock. First time here, you know.’
The peaked cap nodded. The youthful face flickered slightly. Flynn suddenly realized that while his Bostonian Irish accent had been very much at home in Tralee, here it must sound as alien to the young official as the Welsh lilt did to him. Strange thing that, now he was in Britain, he guessed he’d be instantly branded a foreigner each time he opened his mouth. It was a pleasant prospect. He’d never been a foreigner before.
‘Welcome to Wales, then. However, this is a restricted area and –’ the young man stared more closely at Flynn. ‘You have been through customs and the rest, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Flynn nodded.
There had been a bit of a delay while they’d examined his passport, his entry papers and his extended visa. He hadn’t been surprised: there had been similar officialese ructions in Tralee when he’d applied to the Garda Síochána for a longer than three month sojourn with Uncle Michael and Auntie Maude. It had made him think far more kindly about all those poor souls who tried to enter a country illegally.
He smiled, in what he hoped was a confident manner, at the face beneath the peaked cap. ‘I cleared everything with no problems. Oh, right – do you want to see my papers as well?’
‘No, not at all. That’s not my area, see. Just need to keep this roadway free. Do you know where you’re heading for?’
Easy one. ‘I’m going to Fritton Magna.’
The peaked cap frowned. ‘Where on God’s earth is that?’
‘Berkshire. Near Reading, I think.’
‘You’ll need to make for the M4 then, you can’t miss it from here. Then stick with it all the way through Wales, across the Severn Bridge and into England. Then, still on the M4 just keep going till you hit Reading, see?’
After Ireland, it all sounded far too straightforward to be true.
Flynn grinned. ‘Thanks. But it’s really that simple? Just the one interstate, er, motorway? No intersections?’
‘Nothing at all. Straight out of here, and the M4 is signposted. Join at Junction 42 and you can’t go wrong. Ah, you’ve got a map. The run shouldn’t be too difficult at this time of night. So, if you wouldn’t mind moving along? It’s just you can’t park here, see?’
‘No, I mean, yes, I see . . . Thanks.’
With a last lingering look at the murky outline of the docked ferry – his final link with Tralee and anyone that he knew – Flynn slid back into the jeep which his Uncle Michael had procured for a knockdown price at the Dingle auctions.
Sketching a farewell wave to the peaked cap, he drove carefully away from the docks and headed, as he’d been told, for the M4. He’d got fairly accustomed to driving on the left-hand side of the road during his stay in Ireland. But only fairly. Fighting for, holding and then keeping the centre of the road seemed to take precedence in County Kerry.
The M4 was a constant hum of fast-flowing traffic. Keeping the jeep steadily in the left-hand lane and wincing occasionally at the amazing speed at which other vehicles flashed past, Flynn listened to the very correct voices on the radio and wondered what this Fritton Magna place would bring. It sounded like a real quaint English village, though. Exactly like something out of one of those Katie Fforde novels his mother adored.
The six months in Tralee meeting the family had flown past. He’d loved it. He’d loved serving in the bar, and the noise and the music and the general craik. He’d loved becoming part of the Malone brigade, and meeting people who he’d only heard about from his grandparents. He’d been homesick for Boston and his parents and Vanessa, of course. But then, even his parents weren’t there now. God alone knew where they were at this moment. Flynn grinned to himself, hoping they were enjoying every minute of their own adventure.
Vanessa, though, would still be in Charlestown, doing what she’d always done, running Opal Joe’s, living with her huge family, going out places with their mutual friends. All without him. He still missed her, but after six months he’d become used to being single again.
He guessed they’d just get used to being a world apart, would start to live new lives, but hopefully always keep in touch. Vanessa could have come with him of course; but she wouldn’t leave Charlestown and he wouldn’t stay.
The final night in Boston was still so vivid in his memory. Vanessa had made sure that, if it was to be the last they’d spend together, it was one he’d never forget . . .
Flynn was yanked back from this most pleasurable of recollections by the sudden appearance of the Severn Bridge. He blinked at the size of it. It was pretty awesome. Like a miniature Golden Gate. He’d been expecting something tiny and rustic and straight out of Winnie the Pooh.
He looked down at the black, silver-streaked water, and all around him at the pinpricks of light, then joined the queue of traffic moving slowly forward across the bridge out of Wales. So this was England? He wondered just what adventures this new country would bring.
Hours later Flynn wished he was back in Boston or Tralee or damn well anywhere that wasn’t here. Sticking to the M4 had been, as predicted, easy. It had been after that, when he’d sailed off the intersection flagged for Reading, that things had started to go hopelessly wrong.
Somehow Reading had mysteriously disappeared.
The map, spread across the jeep’s dashboard, indicated that Reading was a pretty big place. How the hell he could have missed it was anyone’s guess. Unless, of course, he’d been in the wrong lane and either come off the motorway too early or too late – both of which would mean trying to find his way back on.
He thumped the steering wheel with his fist, cursing himself for his earlier complacency. He’d never be able to find his way back now. It was the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere; it was pouring with rain and he was very tired.
Maybe he could track down a motel or something. There were always motels back home, even in the most out-of-the-way places. It had to b
e the same in England, didn’t it?
After what seemed like a lifetime of driving round twisting unlit narrow roads with no signposts and no people and definitely no motels, Flynn knew that unless he wanted to fall asleep at the wheel, the only sensible thing to do was pull over somewhere. Tiredness was making him confused and increasingly more irritated. If he slept in the jeep until daylight he guessed everything would surely be so much easier to find.
Slowing down, looking for a likely spot to pull in and with the windscreen wipers working overtime, the headlights skimmed over skeletal trees and looming hedgerows, then flickered across an elegant gateway. He peered at the lettering. ‘Colworth Manor’. Maybe it was a hotel – and maybe it wasn’t. It looked like some sort of stately home. He sure as hell didn’t want to go pounding on the door begging a room for the night only to be chased away by the local landed gentry . . .
Deciding this wasn’t going to be the best place to pull in and sleep either, he drove slowly on, and after several more minutes and what seemed like circuitous miles, the headlights picked out a skewwhiff signpost. Flynn peered hopefully at it. If it said ‘M4 this way’ he swore he’d kiss it.
It didn’t. Even more wonderfully it said Steeple Fritton, Lesser Fritton and Fritton Magna.
Hallelujah!
With a renewed burst of energy, Flynn pushed the accelerator down hard and set off towards the trio of Frittons, his lethargy forgotten. He’d found, by accident, the very place he was looking for. And not just Fritton Magna, but three Fritton villages, Steeple, Lesser and Magna. How cute was that? His parents would just love it when he told them.
Everywhere was pitch black in the teeming rain. Had he passed through the villages without even noticing? Should he go back and see if Colworth Manor might just be a hotel?
He shook his head at the foolishness of the mere idea. No, surely there had to be some signs of life somewhere. All he had to do was keep going.
The road had suddenly widened slightly, and he seemed to be driving past buildings now. Was that a church? And some shops? Yes! Hallelujah! Civilization!
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