Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

Posy opened one eye and squinted across the room.

  Sonia, all in disarray but beaming blissfully, was cuddling a blood-streaked bundle and cooing.

  She tried to smile at Flynn and couldn’t. She cleared her throat. ‘Time to go?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Taking one last look at Sonia snuggling up to Ritchie’s son, Posy hurtled into the corridor. The young boys and the bearded man had gone. She swallowed the lump in her throat and brushed tears away with her fingers.

  ‘Okay?’ Flynn looked down at her.

  She nodded.

  ‘That must have been complete shit for you, under the circumstances.’

  She nodded again. ‘It was a bit weird and emotional, yes.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ He put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her against him. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The unscheduled arrival of Baby Dalgetty five days earlier had gone straight into the Steeple Fritton Hot Gossip Chart at number one. Everyone had shown Posy the utmost sympathy, but she was also well aware that they kept peering at her on the sly to see if she really minded. She pretended she didn’t. It wasn’t that hard. Watching Ritchie’s baby being born had been painful, and embarrassing, and definitely unreal, but she’d minded more – much, much more – about the way Lola had flown into Flynn’s arms on their return to The Crooked Sixpence.

  ‘Do you think this suits me?’ Dilys swept out of the Gear Change fitting room and executed a neat twirl. ‘I thought it would be nice for my “at homes”.’

  Posy nodded, clamping her lips together in case a stray snigger erupted. Her mother’s afternoon ‘at homes’ were to start the following week – tying in nicely with the first guided tours of Norrie’s model railway. Sunny Dene would be offering cream teas in the dining room. Dilys would be playing Lady of the B&B.

  The dress she was wearing had been in a bundle deposited by a beanpole of a weekender. A fluid mass of rainbow handkerchief points in stretchy chiffon, it was definitely designer and possibly a size 10. On Dilys, who hovered just above five-foot-two and just below an 18, it lost a lot of its original pizzazz.

  ‘It certainly looks, um, different.’

  ‘Say if you don’t like it, please.’ Dilys surveyed her rear view in the strategically placed cheval mirrors. ‘I don’t want to be a laughing stock.’

  ‘You won’t be, Mum. It’s gorgeous, if a little long.’

  ‘Oh, I can ruck it up a bit, but the colours are lovely, aren’t they?’

  Posy had to agree that they were. Her mother, mollified, skipped off to the fitting room with another armful of designer frocks.

  Gear Change was a bit like a jumble sale. No elegant casual browsing here. Most of the other Frittons, half the Cressbeds Estate, some strangers, and all of the coven, except Tatty who was working, were rootling through the stock with feverish frenzy.

  It was, as all the enterprises were, going really well. It was all Steeple Fritton had needed to yank it out of the doldrums. A bit of ingenuity and a touch of inspiration. Posy wished there was some ingenious sprite hovering somewhere just waiting to sprinkle similar inspirational magic dust on her love life.

  ‘What about this one?’ Dilys emerged in something dark green and knitted, which set off her flame frizz of hair a treat.

  ‘That’s a blame tablecloth,’ Glad stopped searching through a pile of cast-off DKNY T-shirts. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s a Dawn French sweater dress,’ Posy said.

  ‘Oh, I like her!’ Dilys galloped back to the fitting room. ‘A girl with a proper body! I’ll definitely take this one.’

  Ellis pushed the door open. Gladys glared at him and turned her back.

  Posy raised her eyebrows. ‘Copybook still blotted, I see?’

  ‘Well and truly,’ Ellis groaned, leaning on the counter. ‘Gran won’t speak to me. Life is such a shit.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Although I’d have thought you’d have to take some responsibility for adding to Tatty’s brood. And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘I know, I know. But, as I keep telling anyone who will listen, I was so bloody careful. Mr Safe Sex of the Century, that’s me. I can’t bloody believe it. It’s ruined everything.’

  ‘I suppose it has. Well, for you at least, and it’s certainly curtailed your romping activities. Will you be getting married?’

  ‘God knows. I suppose we’ll have to if that’s what Tatty wants. I haven’t talked it over with her yet, she’s still too overexcited about being pregnant to talk sense about anything. But I certainly won’t let my child go fatherless. I do have principles. Christ, it’s killing me. It’s like your Ritchie and that Sonia all over again.’

  Posy winced. ‘Don’t remind me.’

  Ellis smiled. It was very half-hearted. ‘Once, a few weeks ago, I’d have come belting in here to pretend to watch women try on clothes and you’d have nagged at me and we’d have laughed. I haven’t laughed for ages . . . ’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘Why not? I thought you were okay now, and over Ritchie and everything?’

  ‘Oh, I am, but then I found out that Flynn . . . oh, yes!’ Posy broke off to admire her mother who had sashayed out into the shop wearing a 1970s Zandra Rhodes strap dress in tangerine and pink. ‘Lovely!’

  Ellis watched Dilys posing in front of the Cressbeds faction, seeking approval. ‘It’s too small and she looks like a setting sun.’

  ‘I know. But I like sunsets, and she likes bright colours, and we’ve all had enough misery so I’m not going to upset her or anyone else again – ever.’

  ‘You’re a very gentle girl under all that leather bikey rock chick stuff, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m a fluffy mass of damn sugar candy.’ Posy sighed heavily. ‘All I ever wanted was to be in love and for someone to love me and to get married and have babies and be a wife and mother and do little things that bring in money and make life interesting and –’

  ‘Whoa!’ Ellis blinked. ‘Don’t tell me. Tell Flynn ...’

  ‘Oh yeah, right. He’d love that, just when he and Lola are being all kissy-kissy. Christ, now what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Ellis shook his head. ‘Just can’t hang around here all day. I’ve got some courier work to do.’

  Busy for the next hour, Posy didn’t have time to dwell on Ellis’s sudden disappearance. She felt sorry for him even if, like Ritchie, it was his own damn fault. She was far too miserable thinking about Flynn and Lola to spend too much time on everyone’s else’s problems.

  ‘This is going extremely well.’ The vicar pushed his way through the throng and strode up to the counter. ‘Like all the other things which you young people have instigated in the village. Brought the whole place to life. People are pouring into the village and spending money, and, very importantly, coming back again. I’m most impressed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Posy smiled warily. Why was the vicar in Gear Change? Was he going to admit to a cross-dressing secret? Did he hanker after a second-hand Coco Chanel or Alexander McQueen? ‘Um, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I’m actually here for several reasons: first, to say that we have the go-ahead for Mr Malone’s traction engine to power the fairground organ outside the pub on carnival night,’ the vicar beamed. ‘Wonderful news, no?’

  Posy agreed. ‘And good timing as The Memory Lane Fair people are coming over this evening to see Queen Mab so we can firm up all the details. And the second?’

  ‘A little bit more tricky,’ the vicar grinned roguishly. ‘I’ve been sent to ask you a favour.’

  Posy winced. Everyone in Steeple Fritton knew about the vicar’s favours. They usually involved minding the paramilitary unit of the Brownies or making jam.

  ‘It’s about the carnival. Everyone seems to have their stall laid out, so to speak. But we’re short of a fortune teller and well, everyone agrees that you absolutely look the part. All dark and mysterious and with those curls. And I’m sure you can find a lov
ely costume in here, and your mother has a wonderful selection of earrings and –’

  ‘Don’t try buttering me up,’ Posy said. ‘Anyway, Tatty would make a much better fortune teller than me. I mean, she doesn’t just look right, she does it for a living, well, almost.’

  ‘Exactly,’ the vicar looked askance. ‘Which is why I don’t want someone who has a little dabble in the black arts – okay, maybe Ms Spry’s dalliances with the occult are not quite akin to Satanism, but she’s still a touch too close for the Diocesan Council’s liking – being involved in what should be a light-hearted folderol.’

  Posy sighed. There was going to be no point in arguing, and anyway it might be fun, and she hadn’t been earmarked for anything else on the day, had she? ‘Okay. Count me in.’

  ‘Wonderful! Thank you so much.’

  ‘And the third thing? Was there something else?’

  ‘There was. I wanted to say how much I admired you for your actions the other evening. With young Mrs Dalgetty and the baby. It was supremely Christian of you, and can’t have been easy. I think you were absolutely splendid.’

  ‘I’ll no doubt get my reward in heaven. And no, it wasn’t easy, and it certainly wasn’t by choice. I still dislike Sonia intensely and never want to see the baby or her, or Ritchie come to that, again. Does that lessen your opinion of me?’

  ‘Not at all. The best deeds are those that are the most difficult to do . . .’ The vicar stopped and looked longingly at a flimsy silver sequinned dress on the counter. ‘I say, do you think my wife would like that? I bought her one similar to that some time ago, not that she ever has cause to wear it, but I think it’s wonderful. Like a mermaid.’

  ‘Maybe you should ask her opinion first,’ Posy said diplomatically.

  ‘Yes, yes . . . maybe you’re right. I’ll do that. Well, congratulations again on all your hard work, and I’m sure, if this is anything to go by, then the Letting Off Steam carnival will be a rip-roaring success.’

  Posy exhaled loudly when he’d left the shop, relieved that she hadn’t had to tell him that his wife had brought the silver sequinned dress in to sell that morning with a derisive snort of ‘. . . Goodness knows what he thought I’d look like in this! I never wear anything other than Damart! For goodness’ sake find it a good home, Posy dear. Men have no idea what really pleases one, have they?’

  Another busy hour later, just as Posy was locking Gear Change prior to sprinting across the road for her lunch-time waitressing shift in the pub, she noticed a small crowd outside Tatty’s shop.

  ‘Posy!’ Norrie, with Trevor and Kenneth on their leads, appeared from the melee, waving excitedly. ‘Come and see!’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Tatty’s opened up for business, and young Malvina is helping out and has just pinned up some designs. Come and have a look.’

  Young Malvina was fast becoming a real Fritton asset. Posy had thought she might poach her too, to do odd shifts in Gear Change when the courier, B&B, and pub work all got too crowded. Young Malvina had recently been helping out in Rose Lusty’s hairdresser’s, and for the first time in living memory, customers were emerging through the bright pink doors with glossy fluid bobs and sleek highlighted layers, rather than Rose’s perennial favourite – the High Court Judge Wig Effect.

  Having reached Tatty’s shop, Posy shook her head at Norrie as Trevor and Kenneth danced around her. ‘Surely you’re not going to have a tattoo, Dad? Not at your age? I mean, I know you’ve discovered a whole new lifestyle with the karaoke and Meatloaf and everything, but even so, I don’t think –’

  ‘Good God, no!’ Norrie looked shocked. ‘Not me. I get queasy at the mere thought. Mr D and Mr B are in there at the moment, though. Queuing. And look at some of these beauties. I rather like the look of the guillemot.’

  There was a sort of Pick Your Own sheet of designs pinned up in the window. Posy squinted at them. ‘I think that’s an eagle, Dad . . . Blimey, that’s not what Mr D and Mr B are having done, is it? Surely they’re too old, I mean, won’t their skin be a bit puckered?’

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t before, it will be afterwards,’ Norrie laughed. ‘No, seriously, I remember when Tatty used to do tattoos years ago, like her mother and her grandmother before her. Amazing artwork. Really smashing stuff . . . Oh, here comes the first of the walking wounded.’

  Ritchie, looking pale, emerged from the shop. The sleeve of his shirt was rolled up to shoulder height, and a gauze pad held in place by sticky tape graced his bicep.

  He and Posy stared awkwardly at one another.

  Ritchie took a deep breath. ‘I hoped I’d see you. I couldn’t believe what happened . . . I thought Sonia was making it up when she told me and I’ve been meaning to come round and say thanks for what you did for her, and for the baby.’

  ‘There was no need, and anyway, you could have phoned. Oh, no, you couldn’t could you? You’ve had your mobile confiscated. Forget about it, I’m still trying. And take it from me, I definitely didn’t want to be there, and obviously neither did you.’

  ‘We’d had a row that morning. I just went for a drink after work instead of going straight home. It must have been the worst thing in the world for you to go through. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Ritchie Dalgetty! Listen to yourself! I coped because I had to. It was just fate. Not even someone as bloody-minded as Sonia could have cooked up that sort of stunt. Revenge of the Bride of the Upholstery Manager? I don’t think so. And are you going to spend the rest of your life saying sorry for everything?’

  ‘Probably . . .’ He looked crestfallen, ‘I’ve cocked up my life so spectacularly. Nothing’s worked out how I planned.’

  ‘Yes, well, I must admit that for twenty years I’d fondly imagined that being in on the birth of your baby would mean I’d played some part in the conception, too.’

  ‘I’m so sorry Ritchie looked as though he was going to burst into tears. ‘Shit, sorry for saying sorry’, but I’m just so gutted that I wasn’t there to see Bradfield being born –’

  Bradfield? Bradfield? You’ve called the poor little bugger, Bradfield?

  Ritchie looked hurt. ‘It was Sonia’s idea. Like Brooklyn Beckham.’

  ‘Christ! You mean it was conceived in the back of your hatchback down a lane in Bradfield? Oh, I’m sorry, but that is so tacky! Still, I suppose it could have been worse, you could have found it impossible to stay faithful to me in a lay-by in Ufton Nervet –’

  ‘Posy, don’t –’

  ‘Don’t what? Say what I really feel? You may not believe this, but I’ve moved on now . . . yes, honestly. And I feel sorry for you, and I’d bet a million quid that you’ve just had bloody Bradfield tattooed on your arm.’ She laughed at him. ‘I knew you had. God, you and Sonia, the Posh and Becks of Steeple Fritton. Sad ...’

  She kissed Norrie on the cheek, and Trevor and Kenneth on the top of the head, and Ritchie not at all, and rushed across the road to The Crooked Sixpence.

  Lola, still looking miserable, listened as Posy chattered about Gear Change and the tattooing and being a fortune teller and bloody Bradfield Dalgetty and Dilys’s frock buying.

  ‘And I’m going to have to pinch Flynn from you tonight because Jack and Nell are coming over to talk about their fairground stuff. I doubt if Ritchie will be allowed to abandon his paternal duties quite yet, so you might be able to persuade Ellis to give you a hand in here until we get back –’

  ‘No,’ Lola shook her head. ‘I’ll manage. Anyway, if you bring The Memory Lane Fair people in here I can scream if I need help.’

  ‘Okay,’ Posy wove her way through the tables with two shepherd’s pies. She’d definitely missed something between Lola and Ellis. But what? Had they had some massive row? Or maybe Lola had been strident in her views on Tatty’s pregnancy? There had definitely been some sort of split, though.

  ‘Ellis was in the shop earlier. He’s having a really rough time –’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but if you don’t mind I’d rather no
t talk about him.’

  Posy juggled a cheesy pasta and two omelettes on a tray. ‘But I thought you liked each other? And after all, he did go all the way out to Micklesham to find you when Barbara Marion was here, and –’

  ‘Posy! Shut up!’

  ‘That told you, duck.’ One of the Pink twins cackled at Posy through an unfamiliar mouthful of tagliatelle as Lola hurtled into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. ‘Ellis has upset her good and proper. Mind, if you asks me, there’s something mighty odd going on there. With her and your young Yankee bloke.’

  ‘He’s not mine, and there’s nothing odd about it at all,’ Posy snapped. ‘They’re just in love!’

  The only bit of light relief for the rest of the shift came when Mr D and Mr B staggered in, shirtsleeves rolled up, gauze pads in place, to have double brandies and ginger ale. They both looked ashen-faced and shaky, and Posy hoped fervently that she wouldn’t be called on again to make an emergency dash to hospital with one or both of them.

  ‘We’ve had hearts and daggers done,’ Mr D told her. Matching. Except mine says Wilfred and Wilfred’s says Arthur.’

  Ah, sweet.’ Posy smiled at them. ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘A bit. She’s very artistic though, young Tatty. She doesn’t use transfers or anything, draws all the designs straight on to the skin by hand. And there wasn’t much blood at all.’

  Posy, who felt she’d had enough blood and gore in the maternity unit to last her a lifetime, shuddered. ‘Oh, good. Another brandy each? Yes, I thought so . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘They’re late,’ Flynn said, looking across the bar to the clock in the corner. ‘It’s gone half past seven.’

  Posy sighed. ‘No, it hasn’t. That’s fast. Lola put it forward to make sure the punters don’t stay after hours. Stop worrying.’

  She sat back in her seat and nursed her wine glass. She was pretending to be a grown-up. She could do this tonight with Flynn, like a proper business meeting, as a colleague and a friend. It really didn’t matter that her heart gave a peculiar lurch every time he walked into the room, or that her lips wanted to curve into a smile when he spoke, or, well, any of that sort of stuff.