‘What? In here?’ Flynn motioned towards the pub. ‘But I thought you and Lola didn’t hit it off?’
‘We didn’t. We probably still don’t. Oh, it’s a long story and you must be gagging for a pint.’
‘Yeah. Right. I just wish that English beer didn’t have to be warm. Maybe the landlady could sort out some iced beers for us aficionados.’ He winked at Lola, and followed Norrie and Mr D and Mr B into the pub.
Alone, Posy gazed at Queen Mab, a feeling of childlike delight creeping through her veins, and sudden memories spilling from nowhere into her consciousness. Even now, several feet away, the heat from the boiler was like a furnace, and shimmered around the massive masterpiece of engineering like an aura.
She’d loved this traction engine when she was a child: watching mad old Googly Harris belt it through the lanes, with the enormous, silky, greasy pistons sliding back and forth, the smoke belching from the truncated stack, the deafening hiss of white-hot steam, and the rhythmic chug and clunk and rattle. The sheer awesome power of something so huge, so perfect, so alien.
Posy closed her eyes, reliving those times when to be a child in Steeple Fritton was pure perfection. When she and Amanda and Nikki and Ritchie and a whole gang of school friends, had spent summer days in the cornfields and winter nights in the bus shelter and Sunday afternoons gathered round the war memorial and none of them had ever wanted anything else.
Queen Mab had been part of that childhood idyll. Queen Mab and Bunty Malone’s animal welfare home, and the recreation ground, and the youth club in the village hall and hanging round outside the row of shops in the evening after school just people-watching.
She opened her eyes again, slightly dismayed to find her vision was blurred. Surely she wasn’t becoming sentimental? At her age? She wasn’t old enough to be having nostalgia pangs like her mother did when watching Woodstock videos, was she? She swallowed the lump in her throat. Sadly, because Queen Mab had reawakened her slumbering senses, it appeared she was.
Googly Harris had steamed Queen Mab here to The Crooked Sixpence as well, she remembered. Dilys and Norrie had brought her and Dom along as children, all muffled in Paddington Bear-type duffel coats on winter nights, and they’d huddled in the radiant heat of several tons of luminescent orange coal roaring in a firebox the size of a small house, and eaten crisps and drunk Cherryade.
And Googly Harris, his face aglow in the dancing shadows, had had Queen Mab’s dynamo running, so that the flywheel flew in a blur like a multicoloured gyroscope and the belt slapped round, faster and faster, driving hundreds of light bulbs which reflected kaleidoscope patterns in the brass and chrome and paint.
And the smell . . . Posy inhaled greedily again. The steam-driven smell was pure nostalgia . . . Heat and oil and coal, basic and primeval, warmth and power . . .
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Flynn’s voice made her spin back to the present. ‘I can’t believe she’s all mine.’
For one strange moment Posy thought he was talking about Lola. ‘Uh? When did that happen – oh, right. Queen Mab. No, she’s gorgeous. Amazing. How are you ever going to ship her back to the States?’
‘It can be done. Has been before. But I’m not sure that it’d be fair. After all, she was built for Berkshire showmen, and has lived here all her life. She belongs here. And to be honest, right now I’m not even sure that I want to go back to the States, either.’
The small crowd of villagers had swelled to larger proportions as word of the traction engine’s arrival spread like wildfire. Flynn, balancing his pint of beer, was suddenly assailed from all sides by elderly rustics. It was like The Archers Go Mad on Twenty Questions and made interrogation about his plans for the future an impossibility, although Posy was pretty sure that Flynn’s reluctance to leave England must have something to do with Lola. Which would be great news for Sunny Dene as every guest counted, but even so . . .
Norrie, Mr D and Mr B, had trooped out of the pub too, and stood nursing their pint pots, and gazing on their much-loved gargantuan baby. Like Flynn, they were all coal streaked and oil spattered, grimy and blissfully happy.
Posy smiled. It was lovely to see her dad so delighted. A steam-buff since infancy, this must be like his wildest dream come true. If only other dreams were so easy to fix . . .
‘Wow!’ Flynn eventually emerged from the crowd. ‘Now I know what it must be like to be Madonna.’ ‘Funny bras and big biceps?’
‘Bombarded with questions, pushed around by strangers and stared at a lot.’
‘I think you’ll have to get used to it. With that accent, you’re a bit of a star attraction in Steeple Fritton, even without the traction engine. And I was thinking while you were being mobbed, if you’re not going to be leaving for a while, we could use Queen Mab for the carnival. Googly Harris used to park her up here and it really drew the crowds at night . . .’
Flynn ran oily fingers through his hair, making the layers all spiky, and grinned. ‘That sounds great to me. I’d like to have her in the parade, too, and then steam her up here in the evenings for people to stand around, and . . .’
‘And what?’
Flynn shrugged. ‘Don’t know exactly. Just, that sounds sorta boring. What we need is music as well, then we could have a proper party out here, with dancing and stuff. Is there a village band or something?’
‘Fortunately not,’ Posy shuddered at the very thought.
‘What about that funny old coot with the accordion?’
‘Neddy Pink? Jesus, Flynn, we want to draw the crowds in, not send everyone fleeing for cover.’
‘Yeah, okay. So, have you got a better idea?’
‘Actually, I have . . . although where we’re going to find what I’m looking for I have absolutely no idea. Still, leave it with me. And I was going to ask for a guided tour round Queen Mab’s cab, but that’ll have to wait, too. I’m on dinner duty at home and then I’m back in here tonight, behind the bar.’
‘Yeah, Lola said. Amazing. I mean, I just thought you guys would never be friends.’
‘Oh, we’re not. But she needs workers and I need work.’ Posy started to nudge her way through the throng towards her motorbike. She grinned over her shoulder at
Flynn. ‘Enjoy your new role as a major tourist attraction. I’ll see you later.’
He grinned back. ‘Count on it.’
It was nearly half past seven before Posy returned to The Crooked Sixpence. The dining room at Sunny Dene had been abuzz with Queen Mab’s arrival in her new home, and further detailed and exaggerated stories of moving the traction engine from the car park to the shed behind the pub had led to lengthy delays in clearing the tables. And two of the shepherd’s pies and the lemon rice from the pub’s lunch-time clientele, had turned up for dinner at the B&B too, so all the niceties had to be observed.
Then it had taken her ages to find something suitable to wear for barmaiding. She felt Lola wouldn’t accept the leathers again. Eventually deciding that a pair of much-faded and shrunken jeans and a tight black T-shirt looked exactly the sort of thing they wore behind the bar of the Rovers Return, Posy had belted out of Sunny Dene.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she hissed at Lola as she skittered behind the bar. ‘You saw what it was like at home.’
Lola paused in decanting tomato juice and Worcestershire sauce into a glass. ‘No problems. This is working out so well for all of us and I’m just delighted to have some help. My new barman was due to start tonight but he hasn’t shown up, so it’ll probably be frantic. Now, have you ever worked in a bar before? No? Okay, well it’ll be a case of the blind leading the blind, but I’ll show you what Hogarth taught me . . .’
Fifteen minutes later Posy felt she’d got the hang of the pumps, the optics, the mixers and the archaic cash register. Whether she’d ever get the hang of draught Guinness was another matter. Still, as the female Pinks were currently involved in a melee round the dartboard and Neddy Pink was force-feeding the fruit machine, hopefully she wouldn’t be put to the t
est just yet.
The jukebox crooned quietly, giving a background hum to the rise and fall of the conversations and laughter. Martha and Mary Pink, who had now got the hang of throwing the pointy bit at the dartboard, were becoming fiercely competitive with two boys in denim jackets and nose studs. Neddy had won the fruit machine jackpot – again. Posy leaned her elbows on the bar and smiled in disbelief. For the first time ever, The Crooked Sixpence was just like a real pub. Lola had certainly worked miracles.
‘Oh, I meant to say to you earlier,’ Lola said, as they passed each other in a pincer movement, ‘I found these in Hogarth’s desk.’ She jingled a bunch of keys under Posy’s nose. ‘They don’t fit any of the pub locks, so one of them might be for the shop. Give them a try.’
Posy closed her hand delightedly over the keys. ‘Great. Thanks, yes, I will. I mean, if you don’t think Hogarth will mind.’
‘Who knows? But he didn’t give me any instructions over anything other than the pub, no matter what Tatty Spry may have told you, so I’ve no axe to grind. If you can make something of the shop I’m sure he’ll be delighted – oh, damn.’
‘What?’
‘We’re out of tonic waters. Can you hold the fort here while I go down to the cellar and fetch up another crate?’
‘I’ll go,’ Posy offered. ‘I’ll need to find my way around down there. Will I need a torch?’
‘There’s a light switch at the top of the steps – but take it steady.’
The cellar steps were narrow and dark and cold. A single light bulb did nothing to improve the eerie ambience. Cobwebs festooned the walls and the breeze, which had been warm and playful at ground level, had turned chill and malevolent. Posy shuddered.
Several beer kegs, a myriad of twisted pipes, various racks and boxes and a lot of debris seemed to be all that the cellar contained. Obviously Lola’s New Broom approach hadn’t yet reached subterranean levels.
Running her fingers over stacks of small crates containing every mixer drink known to man she eventually found the tonic waters. Hauling them from the shelf, wanting to be out of this dank and dingy cavern, she tucked them under her arm and headed towards the steps. Then she stopped.
The door had creaked open over her head, and someone was walking down the steps towards her. She couldn’t see a face, just the feet, and a huge misshapen male shadow thrown against the uneven grimy wall. Not Lola then.
‘Hello?’ A man’s voice echoed down to her. ‘Are you okay? Only Ms Wentworth said you’d been down here a long time and maybe you needed some help.’
The shadow joined its owner as the feet reached the cellar floor, and the man stood illuminated by the flickering light bulb.
Posy dropped the tonic waters with a splintering crash. ‘Holy shit!’
‘Christ!’
They stared at one another in silent and awful disbelief.
Chapter Fifteen
‘What the bloody hell are you doing here?’ Posy eventually broke the silence. Her voice bounced furiously from the dank walls and reverberated in the clammy air. ‘Just what the hell –’
‘I was told to come and find you, only I didn’t know it was you, did I?’ Ritchie Dalgetty blinked at her. ‘I’m working behind the bar. It’s my first night. Christ, Pose, I didn’t know you worked here, too. Ms Wentworth didn’t say your name or anything. She just said her new barmaid might need some help in the cellar –’
Did she indeed? How very convenient. ‘Ms Wentworth,’ Posy muttered, ‘didn’t think to mention your name to me, either.’
Ms Wentworth, she thought angrily, was, as she’d first assumed, a scheming, nasty, bitter, twisted, trouble-making cow.
Ritchie still looked completely bewildered. ‘Look, I know it’s a bit of a shock, but we’d have had to have met up and faced each other at some time. The village is so small I’m amazed we’ve avoided each other for as long as we have. Surely, it doesn’t have to be a problem?’
‘Of course it’s a bloody problem! I need this job. I need the money. But I’m not going to work with you!’
‘I need the money, too. We’re so broke. Now that Sonia’s given up work –’
‘Sod Sonia! Don’t you dare mention Sonia’s name to me – ever!’
The cellar door squeaked open above their heads. ‘Everything all right?’ Lola called down. ‘Only we’re really busy up here, so if one of you could come and give me a hand I’d be more than grateful.’
I’ll give you more than a hand, Posy thought murderously. She pulled her lips back into a smile. ‘Just coming, Lola.’
‘So?’ Ritchie looked relieved. ‘It’ll be okay, will it?’
‘No, it won’t be bloody okay,’ Posy clawed at another case of tonic waters. ‘You get up there and tell precious Ms Wentworth that you’ve changed your mind about the job.’
‘I can’t. We’re counting on the money. Sonia will kill me.’
‘She’ll kill you even more if she knows you’re working with me.’
Ritchie pulled a face. ‘Christ. Yeah.’
He was wearing black jeans and the blue shirt she’d given him the Christmas before last. And he’d lost weight, Posy thought. And he needed a shave, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
She hoped his look of total exhaustion was because he was working hard selling his three-piece suites and worrying about money and not that he and Sonia-of-the-thongs were having nightly sexual marathons. Not that she cared, of course.
Lola opened the cellar door again. ‘Posy! What’s the matter? Are you having a problem with the tonics?’
‘Stay here!’ Pushing past Ritchie, Posy bounded up the steps and emerged into the warmth and brightness of the bar. She beamed at Lola. ‘No, look, here are the tonics. The tonics are fine. No problems at all with the tonics. I was just having problems with my ex-fiancé. The one who dumped me. The one I told you all about, remember? The one who you’ve just employed as a barman.’
‘Shit.’
‘Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Now tell me you didn’t know?’
‘Of course I didn’t know.’ Lola looked shocked. ‘How on earth was I supposed to know?’
‘Because . . . because . . .’ Posy frowned. Actually, how was Lola supposed to know? She’d never mentioned Ritchie’s name to Lola, and she doubted if he’d given ‘dumped Posy to marry pregnant slapper’ as part of his CV at the interview either. ‘Oh, Christ, I don’t know. You just should.’
Hunching her shoulders, she clattered off into the bar to collect empty glasses. No one had told her to do this, but she knew they did it on the soaps. It gave the bar staff time to recover from whatever blow had just been dealt them, and to mingle with the customers and pick up juicy morsels of gossip.
She’d cleared two tables before she realized that everyone in the pub was watching her with interest. The Pinks, Glad Blissit, Rose Lusty, the Bickeridges ... Of course – they all knew, didn’t they? They’d have all seen Ritchie arrive.
She was the bloody floor show!
David Whitfield was crooning from the jukebox as she snatched up the last glasses and stomped back behind the bar. ‘Get rid of him.’
‘David Whitfield? He was a special request from Mrs Blissit.’
‘Ritchie. Sack him, or I’ll leave.’
Even as she said it, Posy realized it was pretty futile. She was a two-bit barmaid in a run-down pub. She was hardly irreplaceable.
Lola shook her head. ‘I want you to stay. I want him to stay. I need all the staff I can get. I’ll just roster you on different nights, okay? Look Posy, I’m sorry, I honestly had no idea.’
By this time Ritchie had emerged from the cellar and was skulking at the far end of the bar. Glad and Rose Lusty were fighting each other to be served by him. Posy glared at them. Vultures!
Having beaten the local youths at darts by doctoring the flights, Neddy Pink was now rattling his Guinness glass against the beer pumps. Posy grabbed it from him and started yanking at the lever. She looked across at
Lola who was doing something technical with Advocaat. ‘Well, okay, maybe you didn’t know that Ritchie was – oh, bugger!’
Creamy froth erupted orgasmically from the pump.
‘You’n cocked that up good and proper,’ Neddy Pink said helpfully, as the ooze-slick dripped over the edge of the bar. ‘You’n got your thoughts on young Ritchie I’ll be bound.’
‘Bollocks!’ Posy snapped, skidding the glass through the froth and creating a miniature snow storm. ‘Get your own bloody Guinness! I’ve had enough!’
‘Here, let me,’ Flynn Malone’s soothing voice said softly beside her. ‘I’m great with Guinness after all those hours in Uncle Michael’s bar in Tralee. There’s a knack to it, look . . .’
‘Thanks,’ Posy wiped Guinness from her T-shirt. ‘And where did you materialize from? You’re not working here too, are you? If you are, we’ll have more this side of the bar than the other.’
‘I’d just come in for a quiet drink,’ Flynn expertly flicked the Guinness pump handle back and forth, gently filling the tilted glass. ‘Just as well, really. There you are, sir.’
Slurping at the creamy head with abandon, Neddy emerged with frothy gums. ‘Very nice, thank you. No doubt you’ll be able to teach young Posy a few more tricks.’
Flynn laughed. ‘Oh, somehow I doubt that.’
Posy suddenly felt extremely warm and definitely hemmed in. Flynn on one side and Ritchie on the other. Some girls would kill for just such a dilemma.
‘I’ll, um, go and wipe the tables and empty the ashtrays, er, again, shall I?’
‘Good idea, and you’ll be all right for the rest of tonight, won’t you?’ Lola looked quite anxious. ‘Working with, um, Ritchie?’
Posy sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But please make sure we never meet again.’
Wiping tables became a marathon as everyone, without exception, had their own theory to expound on the situation. Most of them, including the Pinks and the coven, seemed to find it better than Coronation Street. Several were sympathetic. No one thought Lola should be shot at dawn for orchestrating such a meeting.
Tickled Pink Page 17
