Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

  He slowed even more, peering from left to right, then . .. hey! Flynn grinned in delight and relief. A light glowed ahead through the impenetrable darkness: a warm, fuzzy lantern-type light which illuminated the front of a sprawling building, which in turn, as he got closer, became a mishmash of shapes and decor – white painted, grey slated, red bricked and tiled.

  Flynn was too elated to give a damn about the aesthetics.

  ‘Sunny Dene. Bed and Breakfast. Wow!’

  He was out of the jeep and knocking on the door in a nanosecond.

  A volley of barking from the interior didn’t deter him. It sounded like two dogs. Maybe three. Dogs were cool. He loved animals.

  There was the sound of footsteps and a muffled voice and the barking ceased. With a lot of rattling and key-turning, the door opened slightly.

  ‘Hi,’ Flynn grinned hugely at the plump woman in the purple and orange dressing gown with her bright ginger hair all awry, then at the two tail-waving dogs laughing up at him. ‘Sorry to call so late, but I wondered if you’d have a room free . ..’

  A beam melted across the plump face, and the eyes creased in delight. ‘Of course we have, love. What an awful night! Is that your car? Right, you go and get your luggage and I’ll get the kettle on.’

  Sure he’d never get used to this obsession with tea at all hours, Flynn found himself in the cosiest little room ever. All deep chairs and fat sofas, the curtains pulled snugly against the wet night outside, it was like Hollywood’s idea of an English country cottage come to life Dilys Nightingale introduced herself and the dogs, handed him a steaming mug and settled down for a chat.

  He told her how he’d taken the wrong exit from the motorway, and how he’d driven round for ages, and then found the manor house, and was just thinking about giving it all up as a bad job and sleeping in the car when he’d seen Sunny Dene’s light.

  ‘This is so kind of you, but I don’t want to disturb your sleep,’ Flynn sipped his tea, having said no to biscuits or a meal of any sort. ‘It’s the middle of the night and –’

  ‘And we’re a home from home,’ Dilys wrapped her hands round her own mug. ‘And with that accent, you sound as though you’re a long way from yours . . .’

  It was bliss to sit there in the warm, sipping the hot, sweet tea, letting the tiredness drain away and telling Dilys how he’d come to leave Boston in the first place. She was an excellent listener and somehow he found himself telling her about his parents and Vanessa, and how the two events that had simultaneously rocked his cosy security to the roots of its foundations had been more cataclysmic than a meteor strike.

  The engineering firm where he’d worked all his life relocating to New Jersey and giving the workforce a mighty good pay-off, and his unknown English great-aunt, Bunty Malone, dying in her ninety-eighth year in Fritton Magna and leaving everything she owned to the various far-flung Malones, had changed simply everything.

  Dilys pursed her lips in sympathy when he explained that Vanessa, who he’d been dating for almost three years, had refused to join him. She loved him, but not enough to leave her huge riotous extended family behind in Charlestown to travel to Britain. Not even for him.

  He sighed, thinking back to that last night at home. How he’d walked back from Opal Joe’s with Vanessa, knowing it would be for the last time.

  The Charlestown streets had already looked misty and nostalgic; the cocktail of smells wreathing from the river and the railway and the docks had mingled with the ever-present New England countryside scent of rich earth and a million trees; and the rows of shingled houses with their white filigreed fences and their fading flower tubs would always be part of his happiest memories. But tomorrow, that was all they’d be. Tomorrow he’d set out on his own and leave Charlestown, Boston and the States forever.

  ‘She must have been mad, dear,’ Dilys leaned forward and refilled his mug. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so. I wouldn’t have let you out of my sight, never in a million years.’

  They grinned at each other.

  Flynn explained how Great-Aunt Bunty’s windfall could not have come at a better time. The sum of money left to his parents had been almost mind-blowing. Not a fortune to some people, of course, but large enough to mean they could at last achieve their life’s ambition. The senior Malones had no intention at all of an early retirement, taking up bowls, and having two good vacations a year – oh, no. Flynn’s parents were off on the cultural trail.

  When he told her about his parents, Dilys laughed uproariously.

  His parents were the only people he’d ever known who embraced the Arts in a suffocating bear hug. His father, a Charlestown traffic cop for thirty years, whistled Stockhausen or Bartok as he issued tickets; his mother, a cleaner at the local government offices, read Kafka in her tea breaks. Their unexpected inheritance meant they were going to put all their possessions into storage, and head off on a journey of arty enlightenment – doing a sort of Jack-Kerouac-in-comfort – travelling across Europe in a camper van.

  Flynn, who had no desire to visit the birthplace of Pisanello or even the grave of Jim Morrison, had declined their invitation to join them.

  At first he’d thought he’d take over the tenancy of the Charlestown house, and continue his life much as before, only without the slightly overawing influence of Jawlensky or Penderecki. The prospect had pleased him. He’d miss his parents, but it would be great to live alone, to be able to have his own home, to have slob-out parties and maybe ask Vanessa to move in.

  For some time Flynn had been aware that at thirty-two, he really should have a place of his own. It was sheer laziness on his part that had kept him living with his parents, enjoying being looked after, and working less than ten minutes’ drive away from his front door.

  Then the lawyers had been in touch saying that as well as the financial inheritance for his parents, there was a special legacy for Flynn. Something Great-Aunt Bunty was sure he’d appreciate and look after and enjoy. Only snag being – he had to go to Fritton Magna to claim it.

  Pretty sure that it was going to be one of those sweet little general stores you saw in the movies, and quite keen on becoming an English entrepreneur for a while and catching up with his Irish relatives at the same time, Flynn had quickly obtained a visa and bought a one-way Aer Lingus ticket from Boston to Shannon.

  His parents were going to have the adventure of their lives, so why shouldn’t he? It would have been so much better if Vanessa had been with him, but what the heck . . .

  ‘And that’s it really,’ Flynn said, placing his mug back on the tray and leaning down to stroke the dogs who had fallen asleep on his feet. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Just like a film,’ Dilys said, her eyes shining with delight. ‘And Fritton Magna is only a stone’s throw away so you’ll be able to stay here as long as you need . . .’

  ‘This isn’t Fritton Magna, then?’

  ‘Bless you, no. We’re Steeple Fritton. Much more classy. Anyway, we’ll try to cure your homesickness and make you part of the family for as long as you want. Now, before we both fall asleep down here, shall I show you to your room?’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Who’s getting the five-star treatment?’ Posy, who was dusting the really awkward bits of Sunny Dene’s skew-whiff staircases – her regular Saturday morning treat – peered at her mother. ‘Please don’t tell me that Lady Lola Muck has ordered breakfast in bed?’

  ‘I do wish you wouldn’t call her that. She’s a guest, and a very nice person who is having major personal problems. Why can’t you show her some sympathy?’ Dilys, carrying a tray and dressed entirely in sparkly lime green, shook her head so that the Christmas tree baubles she wore as earrings performed a little dance routine.

  ‘Because she’s another bloody Sonia Tozer-type man-stealer,’ Posy growled, rubbing the banisters so hard that they rattled. ‘And you’ve changed your tune. Let me remind you, you said Lola was a tart’s name and it damn well suited her.’

  Dilys pursed
shiny apricot lips. ‘Yes, well, I’ll admit I was wrong. She won’t be the first, or last, person to have been taken in by a man, dear, as you well know. And we don’t know the exact circumstances, do we? Anyway, we need all the custom we can get. If I started making people fill in a moral questionnaire every time they wanted B&B we’d be even emptier than we are.’

  ‘Oh, of course I’m glad she’s still here because of the money, but don’t ever, ever expect me to like her.’

  Dilys continued to edge her way up the stairs. ‘No, well, I can understand that, but anyway this breakfast isn’t for her.’

  Posy huffed on a bit of varnished oak and rubbed angrily. Lola’s prolonged stay had irritated her beyond belief. She was showing no signs of actually going anywhere – and even seemed to have given up trying to find employment. It was so galling having to smilingly serve food to someone you’d rather chuck it all over.

  ‘Mr D and Mr B having a lie-in, then?’ Mr Dale and Mr Burridge had rapidly eschewed Sunny Dene’s ‘two neighbouring singles with private facilities’ in favour of the ‘front of house double with canopied bed’. ‘Snuggled up together in their scarlet silk pyjamas and sharing a buttered croissant?’

  Dilys laughed. Everything on the tray wobbled alarmingly. ‘Wrong again. We’ve got a new gentleman. Came in last night – well, early hours of this morning, actually. You were asleep. It was only Trevor and Kenneth barking that woke me up.’

  Posy sat back on her haunches, allowing her mother to pass. ‘And? Is he another one-night stand?’

  ‘Probably, dear. You’ll love him though. He’s American.’

  Definitely a one-night stand, then, Posy thought. American tourists were not big business in Steeple Fritton.

  ‘Why on earth would an American be wandering around the village in the early hours?’

  Dilys balanced the tray against an ample hip. ‘Because he was going to stay in Reading overnight but he took the wrong exit from the motorway and ended up on the Lesser Fritton Road. He’s apparently got business in Fritton Magna, but couldn’t find anywhere else to stay.’

  ‘What? With Colworth Manor not a stone’s throw away? With the gorgeous Daisy offering personal services, three million rooms, ten million staff and a golf course in every bedroom? He didn’t look very hard, then.’

  Dilys shrugged. ‘He thought about stopping there, but he thought it was a stately home, bless him. He’d been driving round and round the villages and was thinking of sleeping in his car, then he saw our sign.’

  ‘Like a star in the East,’ Posy muttered. ‘And who the hell has business in Fritton Magna? Fritton Magna is even more comatose than we are.’

  ‘Well let’s just be thankful for small mercies. Anyway, he’s glorious looking, dear. Just like that man whose films you love . . . oh, what’s his name?’

  ‘Tom Cruise? Brad Pitt?’ Posy looked animated. Men of that ilk were few and far between – and never before had anyone even remotely that gorgeous graced the floral duvets of Sunny Dene.

  Dilys shook her head, making the baubles fly into a frenzy. ‘No, he’s funny as well. You always laugh at him when he’s in comedy films.’

  Posy’s spirits and enthusiasm plummeted. ‘Tony Curtis, you mean?’

  ‘No, not him. At least, I don’t think so.’ Dilys shook her head again just as Norrie appeared down in the hall below with the dogs. She leaned over the banisters. ‘Norrie! What’s the name of that American film star that our Posy always laughs at?’

  ‘Tony Curtis.’

  ‘Maybe it is him, then.’

  ‘Oh, right . . . bugger.’ Dejectedly, Posy resumed her dusting, all thoughts of snatching the tray from her mother and storming the American’s bedroom abandoned. For Tom or Brad, yes – for someone even older than her father with a man-tan and toupee – forget it.

  Twelve hours later, Hogarth glared across the bar of The Crooked Sixpence. ‘You wants what?’

  ‘Water and glasses.’ Ellis spoke slowly. ‘We’re having a meeting. Everyone has water and glasses at meetings.’

  ‘If you wants a bloody meeting you go and have it in the bloody bus shelter like everyone else.’ Hogarth whipped a rancid cloth across the bar top. ‘This is a pub. I dispenses alcoholic beverages and conviviality. If you wants to talk and drink water then you’ve come to the wrong place, right?’

  For a Saturday evening, The Crooked Sixpence was quite full. The Pinks, complete with mercifully silent accordion, were in their corner, and the London-weekenders were out in force wearing Betty Jackson country casual chic. Fortunately Amanda and Nikki had reported that Ritchie and Sonia had been seen heading for the bright lights of Reading, so there would be no shocks tonight.

  Posy had arrived at the pub armed with a notepad and pen and few ideas. Ellis had arrived slightly later, still tucking in his denim shirt, and smelling of Tatty Spry.

  Deciding that peace negotiations were needed if the meeting was ever going to get off the ground, she pushed in front of Ellis and smiled at Hogarth. ‘We’ll have a bottle of white wine, then. And two glasses. Please.’

  ‘Should have said that in the first place,’ Hogarth lumbered off. ‘And if you’re having a meeting, I don’t want no noise.’

  ‘We’ll be as quiet as the proverbials.’

  ‘Good. And make the most of it. I’ve got a bit of business wants seeing to so I’ll have to be shutting up shop here afore long.’

  Posy groaned. ‘Why can’t you get a relief manager in to run it while you’re away? Surely it’d make more sense than closing the only pub for miles every time you have to go away on a, um, bit of business?’

  ‘You find me a manager of the right calibre and I might consider it,’ Hogarth sniffed. ‘But it’d have to be a proper person what knew how to run an establishment like this. None of your noncey poncey sorts what’d ruin the ambience. Now clear off with yer wine and have yer meeting, and no noise. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Settled with drinks and notepad and trying not to notice the excited and musty rustlings of the Pinks, Posy looked at Ellis across the table. She tried really hard not to remember that he’d kissed her. It wasn’t a good way to start a business meeting – rating your fellow board members on Richter scale snogability levels.

  And the Pinks had told Rose Lusty about the kiss and Rose Lusty had told Dilys and Dilys had wasted an entire day telling Posy that Ellis would break her heart – sure as eggs were eggs.

  Which was probably true, if she was ever going to put it to the test, which she wasn’t.

  ‘Right, so what brilliant ideas have you come up with for putting Steeple Fritton on the map?’ Ellis tapped very even white teeth with a biro. ‘I’ve been thinking that we need something that lasts for a whole week. Not just a weekend thing and not a music festival. We want people to come and to stay and to spend money while they’re doing it. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Along the right lines, but still too small scale. If we’re going to survive at Sunny Dene we need people all the time. For the whole year. You know, have something going on so that people are always travelling into the village. And we want them to stay here, not just wander around for a couple of hours and then go home.’

  Ellis nodded doubtfully. ‘Or clear off to stay at that big hotel down the road. Yeah, but finding something to do here for a week would be stretching it, a year is going to be an impossibility.’

  ‘Bourton-on-the-Water manages it nicely.’ Posy clicked Her tongue against her teeth. ‘For a child, you are so negative.’

  ‘I’m only a year younger than you –’ he grinned, ‘and I love older women.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed and that isn’t on the agenda.’ Posy felt herself growing warm, which was strange as The Crooked Sixpence’s fire was its usual bed of grey ash, and a keening wind was rattling at the windows. She tried, and failed, to look businesslike. ‘Anyway, as you’re so young, maybe we can utilize your recent education. What did you study at university?’

  ‘Mechanical engineering
.’

  ‘Really? I’d have thought you’d have been far more airy-fairy than that. And mechanical engineering isn’t going to help us much is it? Not unless you can fix my mum’s car and help my dad with his model railway.’

  ‘Your dad’s got a model railway?’ Ellis’s eyes widened in delight, in the loft or something?’

  ‘Running round the whole of the back garden. It’s a shrine to the days of steam – main lines, branch lines, sidings, stations . . .’

  ‘There you go then. Our first visitor attraction.’ Ellis refilled the wine glasses. Bits of black stuff bobbed happily on the surface, ‘I’ll have to come round to yours and have a look at it. I love railways. I’ve always wanted to do an overnight on a train, like Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot.’

  Sunny Dene’s own alleged Tony Curtis look-alike hadn’t emerged all day. Jet-lagged, Dilys had reckoned, although the dark red jeep with the Irish registration plates seemed to indicate that he hadn’t just flown in from Hollywood. Wherever he’d come from, they’d all hoped he’d sleep the clock round. It would mean he’d stay another night. And they might even squeeze a dinner in there as well.

  Getting back to the matter in hand, Posy frowned across the table at Ellis. ‘What? Just you and three hundred women on a sleeper train?’

  ‘Of course. Well, bringing it more up-to-date, me and any babe band you’d care to mention. And you haven’t written it down.’

  Posy wrote down ‘model railway’ then shook her head. ‘Half a dozen sad anoraks staring at my dad’s layout for twenty minutes is hardly going to change the way we live.’

  ‘It’s a start – oh, here,’ Ellis handed her the wine glass, his fingers brushing hers and lingering. ‘Right, we’ve got the railway, so, next?’

  Posy snatched the glass and her hand away. ‘Well, I thought we could get Vi Bickeridge and Rose Lusty and, er, Tatty to make more of their shops, and I wondered about a weekly car boot sale on the common.’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ Ellis nodded. ‘Good idea, but there’d be nothing there for anyone except day-trippers. Although they would bring people in on a regular basis, I suppose, and your mum could offer good home cooking or country lunches or something and lure them in that way. Even a dining room full every weekend would help you, wouldn’t it?’