Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

  ‘Yes,’ said Posy, who didn’t have a clue.

  ‘It’s got a Bad Name.’ Glad Blissit cackled. ‘And just say you do take it over, what’re you going to sell in it?’

  ‘Oh, loads of things,’ Posy said brightly again, not having a clue about that either.

  ‘Nothing to undercut us I hope?’ Clive Bickeridge had wormed his way out from behind the bacon slicer. ‘We’re all for free enterprise but we don’t want no competition.’

  ‘There’ll be no competition for anyone here, I promise you.’

  This was true because although she had absolutely no idea what she’d really do with the shop if she got it, she definitely knew she wouldn’t be providing stamps and sago, aromatherapy oils and herbal cure-alls, or making all the Steeple Fritton ladies of a certain age look as though they were wearing a startled sheep on their heads.

  Posy ducked out of the post office before Martha and Mary Pink, who’d been building themselves up with rustles and squeaks, could ask any further awkward questions, and clumped along the row in her well-fortified Gaerne motorcycling boots. She felt about as dainty as a Storm Trooper.

  Tatty’s shop door was open to the warm spring air, and the rainbow beaded curtain rattled happily as Posy pushed her way through. It was cavernously dark, with little pinprick fairy lights twinkling in unexpected places. Thick with the perfume of spice and incense, the atmosphere was heavy and languid, and floor to ceiling shelves overloaded with boxes of who-knew-what, made the tiny shop seem even smaller.

  ‘Anyone at home? – oh, shit!’ Posy’s steel toecap made contact with something soft and squashy on the floor.

  Peering downwards, praying she hadn’t just inadvertently trampled on Zebedee or Orlando or little Tallulah in the gloom, she grinned. Ellis’s sweatshirt and 501s were left in a telltale trail in the direction of the stockroom.

  Tatty, still remarkably fully clothed in layers of velvet and lace, appeared from between the strands of a second beaded curtain. ‘Hi, Posy. Are you buying or just looking for Ellis?’

  ‘Er, neither. I wanted to talk to you, but you’re obviously busy so I’ll, um, come back another time.’

  ‘Not busy at all,’ Tatty shook back the snaky ringlets and rattled an armful of bangles. ‘Just trying out something that Ellis suggested. Do you want to come and look?’

  ‘No! I mean, no, thanks. Like I said, I’ll come back.’ But Tatty was clearly not taking not-on-your-life for an answer. Grabbing Posy’s arm she pulled her through the bead curtain.

  Once she’d got the rainbow glass out of her mouth, her eyes and her curls, Posy blinked. It was warm and very dark, even darker than the shop, and Tatty’s offspring, wearing their usual mixed bag of styles, were seated on a neat row of tall stools staring at Ellis. Ellis was face down on a sort of leather operating table wearing nothing but his boxers.

  ‘Jesus, Tatty –’ Posy shook her head. ‘What are you like? You can’t let the kids watch!’

  ‘Why not? It’s how I learned. Watching my mother and my grandmother.’

  Dear God! Posy swallowed. ‘But it’s not right! I mean –’

  Ellis turned his head and grinned sleepily at her. ‘Hi . . . are you going to join in?’

  ‘No I’m damn well not! You’re, you’re weird!’

  ‘It’s a massage, Pose, that’s all. It’s part of Tatty’s expansion, like we discussed in the pub. Remember? You said the shops should offer more, be open more, bring people in for stuff they couldn’t get anywhere else. It was your idea. All those stressed weekenders with tons of money to spend and nothing to spend it on. They’ll love this. A proper aromatherapy massage parlour on their doorsteps.’

  Posy felt relieved but looked doubtful. ‘Well, maybe, yes . . . but you’ll have to make sure you advertise it as aromatherapy. We wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea about what Tatty was offering, would we? And what the hell is that smell, anyway?’

  ‘Ylang-ylang and sandalwood,’ Tatty reached for a pile of towels, rolled up her lace cuffs in a professional way, then flexed her fingers over Ellis’s glorious torso. ‘Supplied by my main man, Baz from Basingstoke. Very seductive. One of the more erotic blends of oils. I’m sure it’ll be very popular. Ellis was a real sweetie to volunteer for a practice run. I haven’t actually been a masseur for yonks.’

  Posy found it faintly disturbing watching Tatty’s long beringed fingers sinuously kneading Ellis’s flesh. Aromatherapy massage or not, it still smacked of voyeurism, and were guinea pigs supposed to moan with ill-suppressed enjoyment?

  ‘Er, am I allowed to talk?’

  ‘Under normal circumstances, no,’ Tatty’s thumbs were circling on Ellis’s back in an extremely erotic manner. ‘I like my clients to be kept quiet and calm, as serene as possible, but as this is only a test run, yes sure. You said you wanted to ask me something?’

  Posy dragged her eyes away. The kiddies, she noticed, didn’t, ‘It’s about this shop. Vi Bickeridge says you lease it from someone and that that same someone might also own the empty shop. Can you give me their name?’

  Tatty brushed a fall of ringlets away from her face with her forearm. ‘Sure, but why would you want to know that?’

  Ellis stirred drowsily and turned his head towards her. ‘Hallelujah, you’re really going for it. You’re going to rent it, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, not necessarily. I mean, I can’t afford to rent it. The whole point is to make money. I just thought, that if it belonged to someone local, I could take it off their hands and spruce it up a bit and do something with it, then it’d help in the overall campaign of putting Steeple Fritton on the map and –’

  ‘Hogarth.’ Tatty applied more oil to her hands, hitched up her ankle-length skirts and petticoats and hopped up on to the couch. The children clapped as she sat astride Ellis and concentrated on his shoulders.

  Feeling supremely embarrassed, Posy frowned. ‘Hogarth? Hogarth owns these shops as well as the pub?’

  ‘Yes. I pay him rent every six months. He owned the other one too until it got closed down.’ Tatty looked at Posy from her straddled position. ‘If you want to find out about leasing it, borrowing it, or anything else, you’ll have to go and speak to Lola. She’s taken over all of Hogarth’s business interests while he’s away. I’m sure she’ll help you.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Posy looked around The Crooked Sixpence in amazement. Not only was it busy – and at lunch time – but she could actually see through the windows. And there was a dartboard and a lovely 1950s Wurlitzer jukebox, a fruit machine – and, good heavens! – a television set anchored to the wall. And everything sparkled. Nothing crunched underfoot, the table tops gleamed, the bar surface was like a mirror, and the whole place looked welcoming and friendly.

  Such a pity the landlady didn’t.

  Lola, very secretarial in her usual black and white with gold chains, was standing behind the bar as though she’d been born there.

  They stared warily at one another for what seemed like ages.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Lola’s smile reached neither her eyes nor her voice.

  ‘Oh, um, nothing. That is, nothing to drink, thank you. I just wondered if we could talk?’

  ‘Can’t it wait until this evening at Sunny Dene? I’m busy and – oh, excuse me . . .’ Lola slid off along the bar to serve a customer.

  Posy waited patiently until the operation was completed. ‘No, not really. It won’t take long.’

  Immediately, another customer arrived, demanding food and a pint of whatever the gorgeous lady behind the bar recommended. Lola, Posy noticed with some surprise, dealt with the request with a composed flirtatiousness.

  ‘Actually,’ Lola said, expertly manipulating the beer pump labelled Old Duck Pond, ‘If you really wanted to talk now, the only way I can manage is if you get behind the bar rather than in front of it.’ She moved off again to the customer. ‘There you are sir, and the cheesy pasta bake? A good choice. All our food is freshly prepared and delivered
by the proprietors of the Sunny Dene B&B only a five minute walk away. You’ll find their details and extensive evening menu on your table. If you’d like to take a seat, our waitress will bring your food over to you.’

  Oh, very impressive! But – waitress? Posy looked blank. Who the hell had Lola engaged as a waitress?

  ‘That’s you,’ Lola hissed. ‘There was a girl coming in from Lesser Fritton but she hasn’t turned up. I’m run off my feet and if you want to promote the Sunny Dene food then I’d suggest you grab a pinny.’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘Posy, please.’

  Please? Ms Tarty Man-Stealer was actually saying please?

  ‘Okay, but only until we’ve talked, and I haven’t got any skimpy waitressy clothes.’

  ‘Just take your jacket off. They’ll probably love the leather jeans and the boots. Pop into the back room and warm up a couple of cheesy bakes – oh, yes sir . . .’ The professional smile welded itself back on the glossy lips. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. How can I help you?’

  Lola had also totally transformed The Crooked Sixpence’s kitchen, Posy thought, hanging her biker jacket over a chair. Not that it was what most people would recognize as a kitchen, being the back room office where Hogarth had obviously slept, washed occasionally, and existed on a diet of baked beans straight from the tin.

  However, Lola had added a compact fridge-freezer, a kettle, a toastie grill, a small dishwasher and a microwave oven. And like the rest of the pub, everything gleamed.

  Having warmed through two dishes of Dilys’s cheesy pasta, tied an apron round her waist, and trying hard not to clump too loudly in the motorcycling boots, Posy sashayed her way into the bar.

  ‘Thanks, you’re an angel,’ Lola mouthed. ‘When you’ve served him, can you do three shepherd’s pies? Table by the door. Oh, and a lemon rice with chicken for the lady by the fireplace?’

  By ten past three Posy’s feet were throbbing, her jaw ached from smiling, and she’d collected over fifteen pounds in tips.

  ‘Phew,’ Lola sagged behind the bar. ‘Let’s get the door locked. No, don’t worry about clearing the tables now. I’m desperate for a cup of tea. Do you want one?’

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ said Posy who didn’t. ‘And can we talk now?’

  Over mugs of tea beside the fireplace, they talked. It was, Posy thought, quite grown-up considering they didn’t like one another. But even though she couldn’t like Lola, there was something different about her now, an air of competence and composure, that certainly warranted admiration. She glowed with achievement, with satisfaction, with happiness. Her face, Posy reckoned, was younger and illuminated from within, like someone madly in love.

  ‘Thank you so much for helping out,’ Lola stretched her elegant legs out across a red and blue and gold hearth rug which Posy had never noticed before. ‘I couldn’t have managed it without you. You were great. You wouldn’t like to do it permanently, would you?’

  ‘I do it permanently at Sunny Dene. No, sorry. Ungracious of me. And yes, I would.’ Well, there was no point in cutting off your nose, was there? And she could fit it in with the B&B and the courier work for Ellis and the shop couldn’t she?

  ‘Wonderful! How many days could you manage?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Definitely not every lunch time because – well, this is why I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh? Go on then,’ Lola swept the neat blonde hair behind her ears, ‘It sounds intriguing.’

  Posy explained about the shop and about discovering from Tatty that Hogarth owned it and that Lola was probably in charge of it now.

  ‘Am I?’ Lola raised her eyebrows, ‘If I am he didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Posy’s spirits took a nose dive, it doesn’t matter then. I just thought that I could take it over and do something with it, you know.’

  Lola nodded. ‘Sounds like a good idea. Something completely different and out of the blue. Actually, running this place has changed my life. It wasn’t what I wanted, and I didn’t think I’d enjoy it, but it’s been totally therapeutic. I suppose we’re all after the same thing really.’

  Posy bit back the ‘other people’s husbands in your case’ retort that was hurtling on to her tongue. ‘Er, well, yes probably. Although survival and happiness will do me.’

  ‘And me, although I thought I’d have to pass on the happiness after Nigel, er, well, after Nigel . . .’

  Posy’s I-spy-an-embyro-relationship antennae, sadly inherited from Dilys, twitched wildly. Ha! So there was a new man involved, was there? Was it Flynn? For some reason this made Posy almost as irritated as seeing Ellis with Tatty. As, because of Ritchie, she didn’t want either Ellis or Flynn for herself, was she becoming all bitter and twisted? Not wanting to see anyone happy with anyone else? She sincerely hoped not – but what other explanation could there be?

  She shrugged. ‘Yes, look, I do understand. I am sorry. It must have been so awful for you when he died, but surely, equally so for his wife?’

  ‘His wife was a bitch.’

  ‘Yeah well, he would say that to you, wouldn’t he? I’m sure that’s what Sonia was told about me. I’m sure that’s what every man looking for a bit on the side says.’

  ‘I was not a bit on the side!’

  Ooops. ‘Whatever . . . No, sorry again, then. I don’t know anything about the circumstances.’

  ‘No you don’t. I worked with Nigel for nearly thirty years. I was in love with him for all that time and he loved me. It was an absolute two-way devotion. I knew his wife well through the business. She was rude, cruel and unbelievably awful, both to him and to everyone else she came in contact with.’

  ‘Why didn’t he leave her then?’

  ‘Usual stuff – the children, the money, the mess, the inconvenience, plus the fact that he knew Barbara would make our lives hell. He’d always said he’d leave her when he retired and we’d run away and spend our golden years together. But it never happened. Although what we had was wonderful. The time we spent together, our home . . .’

  ‘Oh, God, don’t cry,’ Posy leaned forward and awkwardly patted Lola’s arm. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Honestly. It’s none of my business. And I shouldn’t sit in judgement. Um, if we’re going to be working together, and sharing the same house, I suppose I just ought to say sorry for flying off the handle before and being so snotty about everything.’

  ‘It’s okay, really.’ Lola blinked quickly. ‘You’re very young and you’d been hurt. I’d have felt the same way. But yes, it’d be lovely to be, well, if not friends, at least not enemies.’

  They smiled uneasily at one another. It was a truce, Posy thought, not a peace treaty, but it would do for the time being.

  ‘I’ll rummage around in the paperwork that Hogarth left,’ Lola said, as they both eased themselves from the fireside chairs, ‘and see if I can find anything out about the shop, shall I? What did you want to do with it?’

  ‘No idea really, just something to help bring people into the village, give me something to think about, make some money for Sunny Dene. I’d sort of wondered if I could link it to the carnival in some way.’

  ‘The carnival? Like fancy dress hire, you mean? Isn’t that a little short-term?’

  Posy shrugged. ‘I honestly hadn’t thought past getting my hands on the shop. I imagined I’d have some brilliant ideas later, but if you can’t contact Hogarth about it, it doesn’t matter. He’d probably say no. Anyway, do you want a hand with clearing up before I go?’

  Lola shook her head. ‘No, you’ve done more than enough, thanks. I’ll pay you of course – and, well, I don’t suppose you’d like to work in here this evening, too, would you? Behind the bar?’

  Posy grinned as she headed towards the door. She’d mooched about on the common only hours earlier thinking that she’d never find a job anywhere and now, if the shop came off, she’d got five! ‘Yes, I’d love to. About seven if Mum and Dad can spare me, if not, as soon after as I can manage?’

  �
�That sounds perfect. And Posy, I’m so pleased that we’ve got all that, um, other business sorted out.’

  ‘Me too – Jesus Christ! What was that noise?’

  ‘I’ve no idea . . . Oh, goodness, I hope it’s not a pile-up. My first aid is pretty minimal and I’m awful with blood.’

  ‘Steeple Fritton doesn’t do pile-ups. The roads are so deserted we never even have genteel bumps. Glad falls off her bike quite often though, but don’t worry, there maybe a couple of grazed knees and a lot of swearing, but there won’t be any blood.’

  Despite the levity, Posy had pulled open the door of The Crooked Sixpence with her heart pounding. The roar and clank and crunch certainly sounded as though something large and mechanical had just met a pretty sticky end.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  Lola peered over her shoulder. ‘What? Is it complete carnage? Oh!’

  Queen Mab, in all her maroon and golden glory, stood, rocking gently on the car park.

  ‘Sorry if we startled you,’ Flynn, looking more gorgeously John Cusack than ever, leaned down from his perch about twenty feet above them. ‘Norrie had a bit of trouble finding the brake.’

  Posy grinned up at her father. Like Flynn’s, his face was blackened with oil and coal dust and sooty steam. He stood high up in the cab, partly obscured by the canopy, beaming proudly behind the steering wheel. Mr D and Mr B had driven Flynn’s jeep back from Fritton Magna and had eased themselves from it and were now capering around the hissing, steaming monster like children.

  A small and excited crowd was already milling into the car park in the wake of the traction engine. In Steeple Fritton, where a queue in the post office could cause a frenzy, the arrival of Queen Mab was possibly going to lead to mass hysteria.

  ‘If I were you,’ Posy said to Lola, ‘I’d get the beer pumps on again. This lot look like they could do with a pint.’

  ‘Too right,’ Flynn swung himself from the cab with lithe ease and jumped down to the ground. He ruffled Posy’s curls. ‘You should have come with us. It was ace.’

  Posy shrugged. ‘Some of us have been working.’