Threats at Three

by Ann Purser

  “I trust there will be a guard present to make sure there’s no attempt at nobbling,” Mrs. T-J had said to Derek. He had assured her that he himself would be at the starting point and with his team on duty there would be no chance of hanky-panky of any sort.

  The soap boxes were being carefully inspected by the owner of the local garage, and his chief concerns were sound brakes and efficient steering. As he bent down to examine the Youth Club entry, challengingly labeled Rebellion, he scratched his head. “I suppose it’s okay,” he said. “That steering wheel has a bit more play than I’d have liked to see. Still, there’s certainly no danger there. You’d better get a message to John Thornbull to tighten it up a bit.”

  The morning passed quickly, and as crowds flocked round the playing field, the bucking bronco and the tug-of-war events were by far the most popular. Derek stayed for the tug-of-war result, and cheered heartily when the oldies won. “Never thought I’d be on the oldie end of the rope!” John said.

  “Experience before enthusiasm,” Derek said, as he and John walked back up to the ramp.

  Jack Jr. stood on guard beside Rebellion, and said that he was sure all was fine. “Nothing to be done to this wonder” he said, patting the silver, rocket-shaped box.

  “Right, back to work,” said John, and disappeared into the crowd.

  JACK HICKSON SR. WAS, OF COURSE, ALREADY IN THE VILLAGE, today disguised as a woman, in a dowdy brown wig and somber grey coat. He clutched a tatty old bag he’d found in a charity shop for twenty pence, and concealed his hands in his pockets as much as possible. He felt sure nobody would recognize him, and moved freely through the crowds. At one o’clock, he joined the lines of people waiting noisily for the first race. The church clock struck, and with a fanfare from Tresham Silver Band, the soap boxes lined up on the ramp were off, gathering speed as they went down the slope of the High Street, urged on by a huge wave of excitement from their supporters.

  In this first race, Lois with Josie at the top of the shop steps, watched with sympathetic shouts as the streamlined Silver Streak II coasted to a gentle halt a hundred yards from the start, much to the fury and embarrassment of its driver. Race marshals Gavin Adstone and Douglas Meade moved smoothly on to the track to clear away the offending soap box and attention turned to the winner, a delighted young man in suit, collar and tie, every inch the estate agent, driving the cottage with roses round the door.

  “I’ll give you twenty pounds for it!” yelled a wag outside the pub.

  Behind the cheering supporters stood Ross, pressed into a corner by the pub door, glass in hand and eyes constantly on the move, scanning the crowds as they passed in front of him.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  THERE WERE ONLY TWO CONTESTANTS FOR THE LADIES CHALLENGE, the race that all were waiting eagerly to see. They were both sitting in their vehicles, prepared for the signal to be off. Only those clustered round the start had seen who they were, as they had emerged quickly from the bungalow behind the ramp and had quickly pulled down their helmet visors.

  “This’ll be a good ’un,” said Irene to Kate Adstone. “I really don’t know who I’d put my money on.”

  “I wish I’d entered now,” Kate said. “It’s difficult to tell which is which of those two. I reckon their soap boxes were made by the same team!”

  The two vehicles were sensible plain wooden boxes with seats, set up on small wheels that looked as if they had seen better days. The steering was exactly as the kids had had in those years that Tony Dibson remembered, a wooden bar with a loop of rope, and there were brakes in accordance with the rules. Tony appeared, ruffled Cecilia’s curls, and asked Irene how she was enjoying the day.

  “It’s great! But you watch this, Tony. This is going to be the best race of the day.”

  Derek had disappeared, and Gavin Adstone had taken over the starting signal.

  “They’re off!” said the commentator, and the two soap boxes rolled sluggishly down the ramp and began to gather speed as they hit the road.

  Gavin left the ramp and came over to where Kate stood. “Seen anybody we’d rather not see?” he said. She shook her head. “I wish we could be down at the finish,” she said.

  “If they get there,” Gavin said. “Why don’t you run down to the pub, Kate,” Gavin added, forgetting for a moment that he had planned to keep her under scrutiny all day. “Tony and I will look after Irene and Cecilia.”

  “It’ll be finished by the time I get there,” Kate said.

  “I doubt it,” Gavin said. “You’ll more than likely pass them halfway there.”

  GAVIN WAS WRONG. THE TWO ANONYMOUS DRIVERS WERE crouched over their steering ropes as if their lives depended on it. Every so often one would turn to look at the other and nod, whether a friendly gesture or one designed to discountenance, it was impossible to tell.

  Derek, waiting with Josie down by the finishing line, grabbed his daughter’s hand. “This could be the end of a beautiful relationship,” he said.

  Josie shook her head dumbly. She was too tense to speak, and squeezed his hand.

  Then the two boxes appeared round the corner and headed down the final straight stretch to the pub.

  “Neck and neck!” choked Derek. “Ye gods, Josie, this is terrible!”

  “Buck up, Dad,” Josie squeaked. “You’ve got to present the prize to the winner, don’t forget.”

  Derek groaned, and then suddenly let go of Josie’s hand. “Hey, look! There’s Jamie! He made it, after all, bless the lad. Oh, oh, no . . . she’s seen him . . . and lost it . . .”

  One of the drivers had turned and spotted the new arrival, taken her hand off the rope to wave and steered straight into a straw bale. The other soap box, now at snail’s pace, coasted slowly on.

  “Go, go, go!” roared the crowd.

  At last the vehicle crept over the finishing line, with the driver’s arms held high in the air in triumph. The applause was deafening, and when the defeated box had been ignominiously pushed along to the finish, the taller of the two women got out of her seat and removed her crash helmet.

  “Well done, Mum,” said Lois, helping Gran out of her vehicle and giving her a huge hug. “The best girl won! But did you see Jamie over there? He made it! Come on, let’s go and find him.”

  “In a minute,” said Gran with a stately wave to her cheering admirers. “There’s a small matter of a prize. I think you should stay and watch, Lois. It’ll look like you’re a bad sport if you don’t.” She patted her hair back into shape and walked towards Derek, who was clutching a vast bouquet of roses. “Thanks very much,” she said. “You all right, Derek? You look really pale.”

  Derek mutely shook his head. All he could do was give her a peck on the cheek, and hand her over to her newly arrived grandson, Jamie.

  GRAN THE DEMON DRIVER, WITH JAMIE, JOSIE AND LOIS, MADE their way back to the shop steps to watch the last races of the grand prix.

  “Who’s in the final, then?” Jamie asked. He had had a nightmare journey from the airport, his plane having arrived three hours late. But now he was here, and quickly joined the family euphoria at the obvious success of the day.

  “Well, thank God, Jam & Jerusalem is still in the running!” Lois said. “That’s the WI entry, driven by her up at the hall. Then there’s the estate agents’ cottage and the pub lot. Who else, Josie?”

  “The Youth Club’s great little vehicle, Rebellion, driven by young Jack Hickson,” she said to Jamie. “The Hicksons are new to the village. Dad reckoned he clocked up the fastest time so far in its heat. It would be nice if Jack could win. He’s had a rough time one way and another lately, but we’ll fill you in on that later.”

  JACK HICKSON SR. PUSHED THROUGH TO THE FRONT OF THE crowds at the finishing line, taking no notice of the angry looks from people who had been there first. He had overheard conversations about his son being the youngest driver, and having seen other vehicles crash spectacularly into the straw barriers, he was anxious. Nobody had been hurt, so far as he could tell, but
even so. . . . He knew that if something happened to the boy, he would rush to the rescue, no matter what were the consequences. He wished they would start, and then it would all be over and young Jack would be safe.

  Only a few feet away from him, on a bench by the wall of the pub, sat Ross, yet another glass of beer in his hand. His eyelids threatened to close, and he forced himself awake. He had come here with a purpose, and although he had seen nothing of Jack Hickson, he must not let himself give up. He shook his head to clear it, and then he saw him. The bugger had got a woman’s wig on! But his profile was unmistakeable. That nose could not belong to anyone else, and certainly not to a woman.

  Now wide awake, Ross felt in his pocket. The knife was safely there, and he slid it out of its sheath with trembling fingers, keeping it concealed. He stood up. His plan was working out, and he slowly slipped through the crush of people, towards the front row of watchers, where his quarry stood. He knew exactly what he would do. As the soap boxes neared the finishing line, there would be the usual roaring of voices, and this would give him cover whilst he worked his way to stand next to Jack. He wanted his enemy to know who was about to settle the score, and then, before Jack could move in the dense crowd, he would ram the knife home. In the melee sure to follow, he would scarper as only he knew how.

  “They’re off,” shouted the voice on the loud-hailer, and all eyes turned to the track, waiting for the finalists to appear.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  DEREK STOOD BY THE FINISHING LINE, WATCHING CAREFULLY to make sure the track was clear. Several of the straw bales had been knocked out of place by the swelling crowds, but were not a serious obstruction. In any case, it was too late now to do anything about it. The cheering was coming down from the start like a tidal wave. Then they were in sight, and Derek frowned. There were only two boxes on the track. The others must have failed soon after the start. So now it was just Jam & Jerusalem desperately trying to edge past Rebellion.

  “Age versus youth,” said Kate Adstone at his elbow, and Derek smiled. “Come on, Jack!” he yelled, and then remembered he was supposed to be impartial. Ah, well, in this tumult nobody would have heard him.

  When the two were halfway to the finish, Derek saw out of the corner of his eye a movement in the front row of watchers. Several turned angrily to see who was causing a disturbance, and a straw bale was pushed at an angle, leaving a gap between spectators and advancing soap boxes.

  “Straighten that bale!” he shouted at the top of his voice, but nobody heard. The soap boxes were close now, both losing speed as the slope flattened out to the finish.

  JACK JR. WAS HOLDING HIS BREATH. NEARLY THERE! HE HAD never felt so powerful, so elated. This’ll show ’em!

  Then, as his soap box, still in the lead, slowed down to a gentle roll, he saw a face in the crowd that changed everything. It was his enemy, and in a split second Jack saw him rip off a wig from the person next to him, and then he knew them both. It was the man who was his enemy, and the one now without the wig he knew at once was his father.

  And all in that split second he saw a knife flash and he turned his wonderful, winning soap box through the gap in the bales into the crowd, straight at his enemy, and scored a direct hit with the sharp nose cone of Rebellion.

  FIFTY-NINE

  MRS. T-J CRUISED TO THE FINISH, AWARE THAT FOR SOME extraordinary reason, Rebellion had crashed into the barrier. She stepped out of Jam & Jerusalem and accepted Derek’s congratulations, then turned immediately to where she had seen Jack Jr. leave the track. As she walked over, she realised there was no applause, nor was the WI theme tune playing, and nobody sang. In fact, it was eerily quiet.

  “What’s going on here?” she said authoritatively, but John Thornbull raised his arms sideways, banning her approach. “Best stay where you are, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones,” he said. “We’re trying to clear a space.”

  Then two policemen emerged from the crowd, and in no time had moved curious onlookers out of the way. An ambulance, already on duty in the village in case of need, came screaming down the track, and Mrs. T-J saw to her horror that three blanket-wrapped figures were then loaded on to stretchers and lifted quickly inside. The silence continued until the ambulance had left the village, and then a different kind of noise began. This time it was full of anxious voices and crying children. Some adults were crying unashamedly, too.

  “Attention, please,” said a voice over the loudspeakers. “There has unfortunately been an accident on the track, but those involved have been taken to hospital, not thought to be seriously hurt. We are therefore happy to announce that the champion driver of the first Long Farnden grand prix is Mrs. Tollervey-Jones, well-known charity worker and magistrate!”

  Somebody tentatively clapped, and slowly others joined in, until a decent reception was given to the worried-looking champion. She made an effort, waved and smiled, and accepted the silver cup, which she had given for the occasion, from her grinning son Robert.

  “Well done, Ma,” he said, and kissed her cheek. As he did so, he whispered in her ear that in his opinion the casualties were more than seriously hurt. She nodded, and said that as soon as possible she would be in touch with the hospital to discover the truth.

  AS SOON AS LOIS COULD MAKE HER WAY FROM THE SHOP TO THE place where she last saw Paula Hickson, little Frankie in her arms, she saw that she had gone. “Did Mrs. Hickson go with the ambulance?” she asked a stranger.

  “Wouldn’t know,” he said. “There was a woman holding a baby, and she screamed and ran when that box went off the course. I think she went down to where it happened.”

  Lois retraced her steps, and found Derek with his arms around Paula, and Josie holding the baby. “Douglas has gone to find a policeman to take her in to Tresham,” Derek said. “Only a police car could get through this crush.”

  “I can take her,” Lois said. “I left my van outside the village, parked down by Gypsies’ Thicket. Come on, Paula, and you, Josie. It’ll be quicker than waiting for the police.”

  “What about the twins?” Paula said.

  Lois saw then that the two were standing behind their mother, looking terrified.

  “They can come home with me,” said Gran. “Come on, loves, we’ll go and find some ice cream. Everywhere’s sold out, but I’ve got a secret horde in my freezer. We’ll see you later, Lois.”

  The twins looked doubtfully at their mother, but she nodded and said they were to go along with Gran. “I’ll soon be back,” she said. Lois shepherded Paula and Josie, still holding Frankie, through the lingering crowds and down to where her van was parked.

  PAULA HAD RALLIED A LITTLE, AND SAID WOULD IT BE POSSIBLE TO call the hospital on a mobile and find out if they were all . . . She dried up here, and Josie looked at her mother. “What d’you think?” she said.

  “Probably best to wait, Paula,” Lois said. “Not far now, and you know what mobiles are. The signal will probably fail, and then we’ll get a muddled message, and it could be a really bad thing to do.”

  “Okay,” Paula said, and took Frankie from Josie. “He should be in his safety seat,” she added, “but I expect if we get stopped I can say it’s an emergency.”

  “We won’t be stopped,” said Lois. “I know a back way to the hospital. Only about five minutes and we’ll be there. Hold on, Paula.”

  JACK HICKSON SR., BANDAGED UP LIKE THE INVISIBLE MAN, KNEW that Paula would be coming. He knew this absolutely, and had insisted on waiting in reception so that he could be with her from the moment she arrived.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Hickson?” The young nurse looked at him anxiously. She had been told to not let him out of her sight, as he could easily be suffering from confusion with delayed concussion.

  “As well as can be expected,” he said, patting her hand with a swathe of bandages wound round his arm and wrist.

  “Let’s sit down, then,” she said. “You’ll still be able to spot your wife when she arrives.”

  SIXTY

  AH, THERE YOU ARE, MRS.
HICKSON,” THE YOUNG NURSE SAID. Paula had half run into the reception area of the hospital, followed a little way behind by Lois and Josie once more holding Frankie. He began to laugh as he was joggled up and down by Josie as they made for the entrance, and Josie kissed him and held him tight.

  As Paula approached, she suddenly saw a bandaged figure stand up from a chair behind the nurse. “Paula,” he said, and held out his hand.

  “Jack! Are you all right? What on earth happened? Where is our Jack and is he all right?” And then she burst into tears, as her wounded husband did his best to put an arm round her.

  “Would you come with me, please?” the young nurse said. “Perhaps you would like to wait here?” she said to Lois and Josie. “Whose baby is it?”

  “Mine,” said Paula, holding out her arms to Frankie.

  “Ours,” Jack answered, and kissed him lightly. “I’m his father. Let’s go, please.”

  Frankie began to bellow as this strange man touched him, prohibiting further conversation until they met a senior nurse waiting at the entrance to the children’s ward. “Into my office, please,” she said kindly. “Do sit down,” she added. “We need to have a talk before we go to see young Jack.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Paula, in tears again, “is he all right?”