It was really, really, really unfair. How come Sonia Thongs Dalgetty could look that good – again?
Sonia’s dress was strapless, white, and silk. It curved round her breasts, clung to her minuscule waist, then fell straight down to her ankles in a simple sheath looking exactly as if it had been made for Jennifer Aniston. Come to think of it, Sonia had changed from Jean Shrimpton into Jennifer Aniston pretty damn well. The hair beneath the golden crown was sleek and glossy, the smile still pale and pouty, and her eyes sparkled.
Was all this glamour for Ritchie’s benefit or the wrinkly Florian Pickavance who was allegedly going to open the carnival? Loyally, Posy hoped it was the former.
Ignoring Sonia, she grabbed her Tesco carrier bags and sprinted into the orangery.
The vicar’s wife was dresser-in-chief. Having got the Brownies transformed into what looked like miniature Goths and Vandals, the WI into a lot of Abba, the Young Farmers into something that was possibly EastEnders but more probably The League of Gentlemen, the choir into a mixture of elderly and overweight Teletubbies and Tweenies, and the youth club, obviously reluctantly, into that perennial favourite, St Trinian’s, she swooped on Posy with glee.
‘Super! You’ve got the frocks and the tiaras? Good, good. Malvina’s going to do your hair and make-up. What about shoes?’
‘Jimmy Choos. In the bag,’ Posy gasped, as the vicar’s wife attempted to snatch at them. ‘And I can take my own clothes off, thank you.’
Fifteen minutes later, her curls teased into glossy profusion by the multitalented Malvina, and wearing more make-up than Ivana Trump, Posy staggered through the fancy-dressed crowds in the orangery looking for Lola.
She eventually found her standing in front of a collection of decorative wattle-and-daub screens, wide-eyed and trying to sip a gin and tonic through solidly thrusting lips.
‘Good Lord, what on earth happened to you?’
‘Malvina,’ Lola muttered through clenched teeth. ‘I told her I didn’t want false eyelashes or the industrial strength lip gloss. I feel like a waxwork.’
‘You look gorgeous,’ Posy said, ‘if a little rigid. I’ve got the dresses and tiaras and things. Here . . .’
She passed Lola’s dress across and unfurled her own. They were identical in style, strappy, low-cut, full-length, in layers of chiffon. Posy’s was pink, Lola’s pale blue. ‘We’re going to look like the bloody Beverley Sisters.’
‘No we’re not. There were three of them – oh, but you wouldn’t know that, would you? They were aeons before your time. God, I wish we weren’t doing this.’ Lola eased her lips and eyes open and looked at her dress. ‘Thanks. Oh, it’s really pretty. Dilys has done a wonderful job considering she had so little time and we weren’t exactly helpful about what we wanted.’
‘Dad did the sequins and the ribbons,’ Posy admitted, ‘but he’d rather we didn’t tell anyone. Are you okay?’
‘No,’ Lola shook her head as she unzipped her jeans and wriggled them down to her hips. ‘After weeks of trying to behave like a grown-up, intelligent, late-middle-aged woman, I handed the pub keys over to Ellis earlier –’
‘And?’ Posy paused in tugging off her T-shirt.
‘And he said he loved me.’
‘Bastard.’ Posy struggled her own jeans down to her knees. ‘And what did you say?’
Lola pulled her vest top over her head. ‘That I loved him, too.’
‘Oh, very grown-up. About fourteen and a half, I’d say.’
‘Ladies! Ladies! Please!’
The vicar’s wife’s anguished screech halted them both in their tracks. They paused. All the Teletubbies, most of the Tweenies, and a whole crowd of St Trinians, were goggle-eyed.
Behind the screens for changing! Behind!’
Chapter Thirty
The floats were in position. Fortunately the vicarage had a canopy of sycamore trees to shield the waiting procession from the worst of the heat. The dappled light sprinkled huge doubloons of gold across the extravaganza making it look like one of Disneyland’s most lavish productions.
Carefully gathering her drifty dress up to her knees, Posy scrunched along the vicarage’s gravel in the soaring temperature, gazing in stupefaction. Not all the float-occupants had been in the orangery. In addition, The Leonora Leggett School of Dance from Upton Poges were 42nd Street; the coven – excluding Tatty and including Neddy Pink – were, as Conquest, War, Famine and Death, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse; the Townswomen’s Guild were Swan Lake; and unidentified motley crews made up Circus Days, Bonnie and Clyde, Toyland, and The Swinging Sixties.
The vicar, once more sweltering in his Liberace jacket, clapped his hands. ‘All ready? All in position? Let’s just go through the running order again, then.’
The Townswomen’s Guild, who, being at the end of the queue, were in the full glare of the sun and of course covered in feathers, swore loudly.
‘First, the Newbury Brass Band –’ the vicar indicated the group of perspiring but very elegant navy and gold clad figures huddling in a small patch of shade. ‘Followed by Flynn Malone on his traction engine, Queen Mab. Then our Carnival Queen float, then the others in numerical sequence. You all have your numbers, don’t you?’
There was an obedient nodding of heads.
‘Good, good, then, as it’s nearly midday, let’s get the show on the road!’
The bassoon player from the brass band gave a short and rather rude solo.
‘Excuse me,’ Posy clutched her tiara and waved at the vicar. ‘We seem to be one missing. Where’s the traction engine?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ The vicar looked at his wife as though it were her fault. ‘I thought you had him?’
‘I wish, I mean, I have no idea where he is, darling.’ The vicar’s wife shook her head. ‘Weren’t we supposed to meet him at the Lesser Fritton crossroads?’
‘Were we? Yes, yes, of course. Just testing,’ the vicar nodded, frowning at Posy. ‘Right now, all take positions. Hold on tightly, and we’ll be away.’
Posy scrambled up on the back of Les Bailey’s coal lorry which had been mercifully sandblasted for the occasion. Sonia was already on her golden throne – a 1970s peacock rattan chair recently hand-sprayed. The princesses’ thrones, on either side, were nowhere near as spectacular but at least they were dry.
Sitting down, arranging her frock, clinging on, and wondering if the over-ballooned, lily-strewn, dove-covered, rose-arched, hearts and flowers float would make it safely out of the drive, never mind the miles of twisting lanes round the Frittons, Posy grinned at Lola.
It could be worse. We could be dressed as Teletubbies. They’ll probably faint before we get to the common.’
‘Fainting seems like a pretty good option to me,’ Lola said, fanning her face. ‘And I do hope we’re not supposed to wave.’
‘Of course we’re supposed to wave,’ Sonia glared at them both. ‘Smile and wave. Haven’t you been practising?’
Les Bailey roared his engine into life at that moment, making the rickety rose arches wobble alarmingly. One of the doves fell off.
Posy clung on even tighter to the arms of her throne and leaned towards Sonia. ‘You wave all you like, but don’t speak to me, okay? Smiling and waving is fine. Speaking to me will get you chucked off this bloody float faster than you can whip off your thongs for other people’s fiancés. Okay?’
The Newbury Brass Band struck up ‘The King Cotton March’, and with Neddy Pink as Famine joining in on the accordion from somewhere towards the back, the carnival procession moved slowly away.
Once she’d got used to the motion and the fact that the temperature was at boiling point, Posy found it all enthralling. They’d hardly started and yet she’d never seen so many people in her life. Crowds lined the lanes, people hung over gates, children and dogs scurried excitedly alongside, and everyone was shouting and cheering.
As they wound their way away from Steeple Fritton and towards the Lesser Fritton crossroads, there had been few mishaps.
The Brownies weren’t Goths and Vandals as Posy had imagined, but The Sound of Music. An easy mistake to make, she felt. There had been a rather nasty altercation between two Liesls and a Kurt, and one of the Friedrichs had been head-butted by a wailing Brigitta. Brown Owl, who was Maria, was perched on a lopsided cardboard mountain, swigging from a hip flask, loudly singing ‘The Hills Are Alive’ off key and appeared not to have noticed.
‘Shit!’ Posy blinked as the band stopped playing and the convoy shuddered to a halt.
Lola leaned across the lilies and doves. ‘You can do this . . . Smile.’
Posy couldn’t smile. She could only stare at Queen Mab, waiting to take up her place in the cavalcade.
A fat bowser lorry was parked beside the engine and two fat bowser men were attempting to insert a hose into one of the engine’s orifices. Steaming, glinting in the sun, rocking with unleashed power, the traction engine looked astounding.
Flynn looked even more so.
Dressed in very faded jeans and a black T-shirt, he grinned down from the cab as the vicar bustled along the line towards him. Mr D and Mr B, wearing matching overalls, were perched on the coal tender at the back, and Vanessa was shoulder to shoulder with Flynn behind the steering wheel.
‘Ohmigod!’ Posy blinked. ‘Look at her!’
Lola looked. ‘Oh, dear . . .’
It was like Ginger Spice before the reinvention. Wearing Daisy Duke denim shorts, thigh-high boots, a shocking pink bra top, and with a peaked engine driver’s cap on top of the bright red hair, Vanessa looked simply sensational.
‘You can quite see why he prefers her to you, can’t you?’ Sonia said. ‘After all, she looks like a woman. Which is exactly what Ritchie said to me when he –’
Posy jabbed the heel of her Jimmy Choo into Sonia’s exposed toes.
There was a short agonized squeal, and Sonia toppled forward. Most of her white silk dress stayed on the throne owing to the wet paint.
‘Oh, dear . . .’ Lola said again, averting her eyes.
‘Clumsy of you,’ Posy beamed as Sonia resumed her throne and made little yelping noises over the state of her regal frock. ‘No, no –’ she smiled happily at the vicar who had nipped smartly back along the row, ‘No problems. Sonia just felt a little faint. All okay now, though.’
‘Good.’ The vicar looked, for a man of the cloth, somewhat disbelieving. ‘We’re just waiting for the water tender to finish topping up Queen Mab’s boiler, then we’ll be away . . . Which doesn’t mean anyone may leave the floats for any reason whatsoever. Posy, where are you going?’
‘Just need to stretch my legs for a moment. Cramp. Only a second. Honestly.’
Gathering her dress up round her thighs, and ramming her tiara more firmly into her curls, Posy scrambled from the back of the coal lorry.
The misfit of the Jimmy Choos made hobbling towards Queen Mab slightly less elegant than she would have liked, but hey . . .
Mr D and Mr B waved down at her camply. She waved back.
Vanessa widened her eyes. ‘Hi, Posy. Isn’t this all darling} And oh, my, don’t you look just stunning?’ Posy whimpered. How could you hate someone who was so bloody cheerful and so unremittingly nice?
‘Wow!’ Flynn grinned down at her. ‘You seriously look a million dollars. Hardly dressed for engine crew though, are you?’
‘Not yet, but I will be later,’ Posy smiled. ‘I’ve seen the Limonaire outside the pub and it’s awesome.’ Vanessa giggled.
‘Yeah, I know.’ Flynn nodded. ‘And the carnie, er, fair is everything that Jack and Nell promised. This truly is going to be one of the most amazing days of my life.’
Posy felt suddenly hopeful. Was there a wistful note in his voice? Did he really want to send Vanessa back to Boston alone and throw in his lot with The Bradley-Morland Fair and spend the rest of his time in Steeple Fritton? Was he maybe having second thoughts about going home?
‘Mine too.’
‘All done, mate,’ one of the bowser men yanked the water hose away from Queen Mab with a flourish. His eyes flickered hungrily between Vanessa and Posy. ‘That’ll see you through most of today, but we’ll be on stand-by tonight if you need a top-up.’
‘Great,’ Flynn said happily, ‘I’ll buy you a beer or three.’
‘Posy! Float! Now!’ The vicar had come over all dictatorial. ‘We’re ready to move!’
With Mr D and Mr B merrily shovelling more coal into the firebox, and Vanessa expertly pushing and pulling levers, Queen Mab started to get up steam. After a series of hisses and a belch that would have done credit to Neddy Pink, the gearing started to clank into place, smoke rose in staccato puffs from the chimney, and Flynn gave an ear-splitting shrill on the whistle.
‘See you later,’ he yelled down to Posy above the chugging roar. ‘I want you to tell my fortune.’
‘Posy!!!!’ The vicar was turning purple.
‘Count on it.’
Posy grinned at Flynn, then blowing him a kiss, skipped back to her float as fast as the Jimmy Choos would allow.
‘Well?’ Lola raised a painted eyebrow as Posy scrambled back on to her throne.
‘Oh, yes,’ Posy sighed happily. ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes! I’m definitely, stupidly, madly in love, and it’s crazy and will break my heart, and I don’t bloody care.’
She sat back on her throne, bracing herself for the lorry’s jerk forward as the band started to play the Radetsky March’, and Queen Mab rolled and rumbled majestically ahead of them. Oh, this was absolute heaven . . .
If she sat sideways for the entire procession she could watch Flynn’s shoulder muscles move beneath the T-shirt as he drove the engine, with an equally blissful non-stop back view of his toned waist and lean hips and denim-clad bum.
Not even Sonia’s glowering presence could spoil her joy.
After winding through the narrow streets of Lesser Fritton and Fritton Magna and gathering more and more people as they went, the cavalcade had completed its circuit and trundled into Steeple Fritton village for the first time.
The roar of delight as they came into view sent shivers of delight down Posy’s spine.
The carnival was now in full swing: an undulating mass of colour and noise and motion. The fairground was a dizzy maroon and gold musical centrifuge, packed with people; all the tried-and-tested stalls were surrounded by jostling throngs; the commons were so crowded that it was impossible to see a blade of grass; and still cars queued out towards the bypass.
Steeple Fritton was on the map at last.
Once Florian Pickavance had declared the carnival open – with a lot of giggling from Sonia as they crammed together on the makeshift stage – the vicar’s welcome speech had made it clear – well, almost clear then – that the crowds on the commons were witnessing the birth of a new cultural heritage.
That every year from now on, Steeple Fritton’s Letting Off Steam day would become bigger and better. That they would be forever providing the traditional entertainment and nostalgia missing from today’s fast-fix society.
Posy felt he’d credited himself with a touch too much of the glory, but it really didn’t matter. Not today. And he had remembered to plug all the village enterprises too, and point out that details of these could be found in the carnival programme. Saatchi & Saatchi couldn’t have done it better.
Now sneakily holding hands, Florian and Sonia were called upon to judge the floats and the kiddies’ fancy dress. There were the usual cries of outrage as the respective spoils went to the Townswomen’s Guild and an under-fives Posh’n’Becks.
The clamour for liquid refreshment was phenomenal as the temperature continued to hover in the 80s, so Lola, having ripped off the tiara and the false eyelashes and unpeeled the lip gloss, had returned to The Crooked Sixpence. Posy hoped that this would mean Ritchie could be spared to join in the celebrations and watch his beloved Sonia schmoozing with the Wrinkly Rocker.
Not that she really wished any lasting unhappiness on Ritchie, but a little teeny bit would surely be fa
ir . . .
Queen Mab had taken up her position outside the pub, and was now steaming quietly under the watchful eyes of Mr D and Mr B until she’d be called upon to provide the evening’s entertainment. Which meant, of course, that Flynn was free – apart from the V-word.
Posy, having met up with Amanda and Nikki and most of her other village friends, bumped and barged her way round the common, having a go on everything, leaping on and off all The Bradley-Morland Fair rides, smiling at everyone, stopping to chat, and knowing that she was constantly searching for a glimpse of Flynn’s dark hair and broad shoulders, or the sound of his lust-making husky accent.
‘Aren’t you going to get changed, love?’ Dilys’s voice made her jump. ‘There’s quite a crowd already for the fortune teller.’
‘Damn, is there?’ Posy grinned at her mother. ‘I’d got a bit sidetracked. How are you doing?’
‘Oh, better than we ever thought possible.’ Dilys’s tangerine earrings bobbled with delight. ‘All my homemade cakes have sold out, and Dad and Dom have got a queue right round the block for the railway, and the local paper has taken photos. And, the best news, one of the weekenders says he’s going to get a chum of his who works on the lifestyle section of one of the Sundays to come down and do a piece on the whole village.’
‘That’d be amazing.’ Posy swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘I never thought, I mean, well, all this . . .’
‘It just shows that dreams can come true,’ Dilys said, ‘with a bit of a shove in the right direction and a lot of damned hard work. And, fantastic as this all is, if you don’t want the vicar screaming at you again, I think you’d better turn into Madame Za-Za pretty bloody quickly.’
Posy did.
Crawling in under the back of the tarpaulin so as not to be spotted by the punters and getting changed in the tent had been difficult, but she’d managed it. Now smoothing down her moon and stars black chiffon skirt and red pentagon vest top, tying a black and silver scarf round her curls and fastening in Dilys’s biggest gold hoop earrings, she felt she was ready for business.
Tickled Pink Page 35
