‘Mr Malone?’ The lawyer held out his hand. ‘So sorry to have kept you waiting. The roads were a little more treacherous than I’d anticipated. You must be frozen. You should have waited in the car.’
‘No problem.’ Flynn shook the leather-gloved hand. ‘I was enjoying the winter scenery.’
The lawyer, whose nose was turning purple, looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Er, well, yes, whatever. If you’d like to follow me, we should be able to make it by car as long as it doesn’t snow any harder. Mind you, how you intend to ship it back to America is beyond me. Still, no doubt we can discuss that later. Come along.’
Flynn hopped obediently into the jeep and started the engine. The lawyer’s accent was quite incredible. He sounded like Prince Charles.
‘So?’ Posy leaned forward between him and Ellis, her damp curls brushing his face. ‘Any clues?’
‘None,’ Flynn concentrated on getting the jeep along a track that had shrunk to six inches wide with a skating rink surface. ‘Just that I might have trouble shipping it home.’
‘Oh, right.’ Posy sank down again. ‘Maybe it’s a stuffed animal then. Bunty did a lot of that sort of thing. When her favourites died she had them taxidermied and mounted in a sort of museum mausoleum, you know, like Victor the giraffe?’
Jesus Christ! Flynn nearly drove into the bank. ‘You are kidding? She didn’t stuff giraffes?’
‘No, of course she didn’t. Giraffes aren’t big in Fritton Magna, just in case you’re not up to speed with British flora and fauna. But there was this giraffe that died in a zoo and so they had him – oh, well, look, it probably isn’t anything like that. Don’t worry about it.’
Too late. Flynn was worrying. What if it was the whole damn stuffed animal museum? What if he was about to be faced with rows and rows of staring glassy eyes and poor sparse-haired creatures all standing sad and stiff-legged on plinths? How well would that go down in Charlestown?
‘Your solicitor’s slowing down,’ Ellis said, from the passenger seat. ‘Just by those barns. Maybe Posy’s right, maybe it is a dead animal. Look, if it’s a whole set, maybe we could lease them from you and make them a feature of the Steeple Fritton Carnival?’
‘No way – we don’t want a static display.’ Posy leaned forward again. Her hair was still damp. ‘What we’d have to do is put them on wheels, then we could give rides to the kiddies. Tatty would love that. Her brood would form a queue all on its own.’
‘Bitchy!’ Ellis tugged at one of Posy’s curls. ‘No, but seriously, we might be able to do something with them.’
‘Oh, great, that gives us two attractions, then. My dad’s model railway and a lot of dead animals. Notting Hill eat your heart out.’
‘Will you two button it,’ Flynn grinned at them both as he slid the jeep to a halt behind the lawyer’s car, wondering, as he had all week, if this constant teasing meant they were a couple, I’ve heard about nothing but this darn embryo Mardi Gras from you ever since I arrived. Can’t we concentrate on this for a moment?’
‘Yeah, okay,’ Posy was scrambling from the car. ‘I suppose it does seem a bit boring to you. After all, you’ll have gone back to America by June. Christ! It’s cold!’
It was and would he? Have returned to the States by the time this carnival thing took off? He had no idea. He hadn’t planned to go home yet. . . Maybe he’d go back to Tralee when this inheritance thing was sorted . . . Or maybe he’d stick around.
‘Mr Malone!’ The lawyer barked through a miniature blizzard. ‘Over here!’
Yessir! Flynn thought, sliding across the powdery surface followed by Ellis and Posy. Lawyers were obviously lawyers the world over – even if they did speak like royalty.
‘Now,’ Great-Aunt Bunty’s legal eagle surveyed him. ‘I’ve checked out all your papers, I’ve authenticated your rights to ownership, so there’s no more to be done on that side of the business. I must say, though, that I did have my doubts about you turning up at all.’
‘I got delayed in Ireland.’ Flynn felt exactly like he had with his tutor at high school when work hadn’t been handed in on time. ‘Sorry.’
‘Yes, well, you’re here now . . .’ The lawyer was unlocking the door to a ramshackle barn. ‘I must also tell you that this barn has been willed by Miss Malone to her Animal Trust so you’ll have to relocate your inheritance as soon as possible. As I said, transportation may prove a problem, but fortunately it won’t be mine. Ah!’ The door eventually opened and the lawyer almost lost his grip. ‘Here we are.’
It was even colder inside the barn than out. There were holes in the corrugated iron roof where the snow spattered through, and icicles hung from the dusty rafters. There was nothing else inside the cavernous interior except several huge grey tarpaulins humped over what looked like a small mountain.
‘It’s a stuffed elephant,’ Posy said from behind him. ‘Bet you any money.’
Flynn looked at her in horror. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you? You said she didn’t do wild animals.’
‘She might have made an exception.’
‘Must be two elephants,’ Ellis added. ‘Or three. Look at the size of it! Elephants in flagrante, maybe. Or elephants à trois.’
‘It’s not a damn elephant,’ the lawyer said testily, obviously wondering why he couldn’t be doing something cosy like divorces in the centrally heated fug of his office, ‘It’s a Lion.’
‘Nah! That’s never a lion,’ Posy’s voice echoed eerily against the corrugated roof. ‘That’s far too big to be a lion.’
For the first time, Flynn was beginning to wish he’d stayed in Boston.
The lawyer twitched at the nearest tarpaulin and referred to a sheaf of notes, it’s a Super Lion, actually. Built by John Fowler in Leeds in the early 1930s. Still in perfect working order.’
Taking in the words, Flynn felt a tremble of anticipation deep inside. Surely not? Surely, it couldn’t be...?
The lawyer yanked even harder at the tarpaulin, revealing glossy maroon paintwork, brilliant sunflower yellow wheels that towered above them, a glimpse of barley sugar twists of chrome . . .
‘It’s a tractor,’ Ellis said, with disappointment in his voice. ‘A bloody big tractor, but still. There’s not much we can do with a tractor.’
‘It’s not a tractor,’ Flynn’s mouth was dry. It’s a showman’s traction engine. A real, perfect, showman’s engine.’
He was pulling at the tarps with the lawyer now. Excitement, disbelief . . . A Fowler Super Lion! It would need a crew of dozens and stepladders to remove all the sheeting, but the back end was revealed in all its glorious glory, and that was enough for now.
Towering twenty feet above them, even the wheels were taller than he was, it stood in dark, cold splendour.
‘Christ!’ Posy’s grin was ear to ear. it is a traction engine! Wow! You lucky sod! It used to belong to old Googly Harris! I haven’t seen it since I was a kid – must be over twenty years. He used to trundle about in it scaring the horses, but he died ages ago.’
Ellis was open-mouthed. ‘Bloody hell! I’ve only ever seen them at rallies and steam fairs. They’re every steam fanatic’s wildest fantasy and as rare as moon dust. There’s no way you’re taking this back to the States before the carnival, it’ll be the star of the show. But –’ he stopped and frowned at Flynn. ‘How come your Great-Aunt Bunty had it, then?’
‘It was left to Miss Malone by Mr Harris when he died some years ago,’ the lawyer said. ‘There was, I gathered, a long-running affection between them. She’s called Queen Mab, by the way.’
Queen Mab . . . Like something out of a fairy tale . . . Not really hearing the voices and totally unaware of the biting cold, Flynn ran his hands over Queen Mab’s maroon paintwork, shiny as patent leather and still so perfect that he could see Posy and Ellis reflected in it – all squat and elongated – and felt suddenly sad. These people, Bunty Malone and Googly Harris, dead now, had loved and laughed and enjoyed themselves . . . and he hadn’t even known they existed.
Posy was stroking the massive red and yellow wheel spokes with loving tenderness, as though she’d been reunited with a beloved pet after a prolonged stay in kennels. ‘Why did she leave it to Flynn, though? She didn’t know him.’
‘Miss Malone was well aware of the personalities of her scattered family members. In this case, she knew that Mr Malone here was a member of the Rough and Tumblers –’
‘Really?’ Posy’s eyes widened. ‘I shouldn’t let Tatty get wind of that.’
Ellis punched her again.
‘The Rough and Tumblers are a society of steam preservationists in America,’ the lawyer said patiently. ‘Miss Malone knew that Flynn’s work in locomotive engineering spread into his leisure interests. It was one of her great pleasures, finding out about her family when they knew nothing of her. She planned to leave them all exactly what she thought would please them most.’
There was silence in the barn. The poignancy of the words seemed to have affected Posy and Ellis too. Flynn wanted to thank Great-Aunt Bunty, he wanted to know her, and it was all too damn late.
‘The best thing you can do is simply enjoy this,’ the lawyer said gently, ‘It’s the most fitting memorial Miss Malone could have – leaving happiness.’
Flynn nodded, a lump in his throat. Great-Aunt Bunty’s money had enabled his parents to see all the places they’d only dreamed about. Her legacies to the Malone clan in Tralee had ensured Uncle Michael and Aunt Maude would run the bar forever and a day, and that their various offspring would never want for a roof over their heads.
And for him – he looked again at the perfect specimen of early twentieth-century engineering looming above him – for him she’d left paradise.
Chapter Twelve
Obviously, Lola thought, becoming the landlady of The Crooked Sixpence wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind as a new career; but when you considered that the alternative was Rough Sleeper, it was a gift from the gods.
‘So?’ Hogarth frowned at her in the gloom of the bar. ‘You’re sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Perfectly.’
Having spent almost a week working cheek by unsavoury jowl with Hogarth, Lola was itching for him to go, to leave her alone so that she could turn The Crooked Sixpence into a thriving hive of – what exactly? Well, a thriving hive of something. Anything. Anything at all would be an improvement in an establishment which would have made Jamaica Inn look like Egon Ronay Recommended.
She gave her professional and practised smile-of-confidence. ‘You’ve trained me well. I’ve spoken to all the reps and breweries, I’ve been through the books, I know where everything is and who to contact, and I’ve got your accountant’s phone number should anything untoward happen.’
Hogarth humped two dirty and scratched cardboard suitcases on to the bar. ‘Fair enough. You seems like a capable wench. I’ll just be glad to leave it to someone who knows what they’re doing.’
Lola hoped that her face didn’t twitch at the word wench. And as for knowing what she was doing . . . well, she may have embroidered her responsibilities at Marionette Biscuits just a tad. The professional smile remained resolutely fixed. ‘As long as you’re giving me carte blanche –’
‘Uh?’ Hogarth had hauled one suitcase from the bar top, and paused with the second. ‘I never said nothing about transport.’
‘No, no, it means – oh, well, look, off you go. I’ll be fine.’ Lola still had to fight the urge to shove him bodily through the door. ‘Honestly, I know about the rules and regulations, the banking, the reordering, the laws of the licensing trade. You go and enjoy yourself.’
‘Enjoy meself?’ Hogarth had his hand tantalizingly on the door latch. ‘This ain’t a bloody holiday I’m taking.’
‘No, no, of course not,’ Lola stretched her face into an even wider smile. ‘You go and work yourself to a frazzle, then. And I’ll see you later in the year.’
‘Ah. September likely. Depends.’
Then without further preamble or any parting niceties, Hogarth, and his two 1930s suitcases, finally disappeared.
Lola exhaled and leaned against the bar, letting the smile slip away. It was still snowing intermittently, as it had been for more than a week, and the yellow ochre afternoon light filtered into the dismal pub making it look colder and dirtier than ever. Marionette Biscuits, and Swansbury, and the luxury apartment, and Nigel – oh, especially Nigel – seemed as though they belonged to another lifetime. Another person. Which she supposed they did.
There would be no going back now. Somehow she’d been dealt this hand and she’d have to play it to the best of her ability. All the old dreams for the future, the cosy, snug, happy future, living with Nigel in love and luxury, were dead. Her new future was going to be what she made it and at least she had somewhere to live and a job – both temporary, but not to be sniffed at. If only she didn’t feel so damn lonely . . .
‘No time for self-indulgence,’ she said out loud, listening to her voice thump dully against the grimy walls. ‘Not when there’s work to be done and there’s only me to do it.’
In the absence of anything like an apron, she tied a far-from-clean towel round her waist, covering the best part of her navy crepe trousers and some of her grey angora sweater. She’d really have to get into jeans like Posy if she was going to become a manual worker. The idea seemed ludicrous. A few weeks off her fiftieth birthday and she was contemplating wearing denim for the first time . . .
Looking round the gloomy pub she felt the stirrings of apprehension ripple beneath her ribs. Lola pushed them irritably away. This was no time for second thoughts or doubts of any indices. She was on her own in this particular venture – and in everything else for the rest of her life.
The other Sunny Dene residents had been fleetingly interested in her taking over The Crooked Sixpence. But only fleetingly. When it transpired that she couldn’t give them any inside information on Hogarth’s other business interests, where he was going, and if he was to be accompanied by a seventeen-year-old nymphet, what little interest there had been dwindled pretty rapidly.
They all seemed to be far more caught up in this daft carnival idea, and more recently, all agog at Flynn Malone’s steam-driven inheritance. Lola had hardly bothered to listen to the excited dinner-table gossip. It didn’t concern her or involve her in any way. Dilys and Norrie were kind and attentive, Flynn was polite, Mr D and Mr B treated her as one of the family, and Ellis flirted with her.
Posy still ignored her, but she wasn’t surprised. Posy and she were a generation apart. What the hell could a child like Posy, who thought her heart had been broken, know about the real thing?
‘Work,’ Lola said to herself again, pulling on a pair of Marigolds and picking up a bucket. ‘The cure for all ills . . .’
Work took about three hours and she’d only just scratched the surface. Having decided to close the pub for two days, much to the Pinks’ consternation, in an attempt to at least get rid of the worst of the grime, Lola realized how futile the task was. She’d need an army of professional Mrs Mops to lick this place into shape. Still, at least the floors were gleaming now, and the cobwebs had been banished, clinging to her broom like grey candyfloss, and all the out-of-date bottles had been dumped from behind the bar, and a proper fire crackled cheerfully in the swept grate.
‘Excuse me . . .’
The door opened, allowing the murky afternoon darkness to rush in and fill up the dingy corners, accompanied by a snow flurry and bitterly cold wind.
‘I’m afraid we’re closed,’ Lola said, wiping a grubby glove across her forehead and not looking up. ‘Until Wednesday. For refurbishment.’
‘I know. I saw the notice. I’m here because of the other one.’
Lola pushed her hair behind her ears and looked at the tall, fair-haired man in the doorway. He was wearing a crombie overcoat and had melting snowflakes in his hair. ‘Which other one? Oh, you mean the one about bar staff?’
She’d gummed the ‘staff wanted – a
pply within’ notice on the outside door shortly before Hogarth left. She’d hoped he wouldn’t notice. There had been no mention of hiring staff, but Lola was pretty sure she couldn’t run The Crooked Sixpence alone.
He nodded. ‘Are you still looking?’
‘Haven’t even started, and for God’s sake come in and close the door before we freeze to death.’
The man closed the door and looked round. ‘You’ve certainly been working hard. I didn’t know there was a carpet.’
‘Have you done bar work before?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but I’m sure I could learn really quickly. And I live in the village, and I know everyone who drinks in here.’
Lola could see the sense in this. A local who knew the peccadilloes of the pub’s regulars would be worth his weight in cheese and onion crisps. Which was another area she intended to explore. Pub grub. Hogarth, she understood, had never let so much as a packet of peanuts pass across the bar. She’d soon alter that.
‘Right, so are you looking for full-time work?’
‘No. I work in a department store in Reading. Manager. Upholstery.’
There was a pause and Lola wondered if he’d changed his mind, then realized that she was supposed to make some sort of comment. ‘Oh, er, right . . . lovely. Well done. Um –’
‘I’ve just got married and we’re expecting our first baby and money is tight. I could do most evenings.’
Lola nodded. He was young and nice looking and spoke politely. He could be an asset – and it was rather sweet that she’d be helping out a newly-married couple with an imminent child.
‘Okay, look if you come in again on Wednesday before we open and we’ll run through a few things. I wouldn’t want you to start for a couple of weeks at least until I gauge the trade, and the money won’t be great.’
Tickled Pink Page 13
