‘Do me a favour, love. I’m desperate for drivers and there’s a Mr Bradley called from Acton. 57, Wyndham Road. Doing his nut, he is. He’s been waiting half an hour already, and he’s got to get to Southmead Polytechnic, urgent. He’s got a load of stuff. Sheep, I think he said.’
‘Sheep?’
‘That’s what it sounded like.’
‘Reg, I’m not only exhausted, but I draw the line at animals. Even that wretched Mrs Barker’s lap-dog ruined my upholstery.’
‘Well, forget about the sheep and rescue Mr Bradley. I doubt if they’re real ones, anyway. You don’t get sheep in Acton.’
The pips were going and she didn’t have another coin. ‘OK love?’ Reg shouted. ‘You’ll do it for me then?’
‘OK.’ Frances swore silently. Blast Mr Bradley and his flock of sheep. On the other hand, there was nothing to go home for. Charles was away till the following evening, and the house always felt lost and limp without him, as if it had shed its stuffing and its spine.
The traffic was appalling. She tried to take a short cut and landed in a cul-de-sac. She hoped Mr Bradley wouldn’t storm and shout. Some of the passengers almost attacked you, the minute they opened the door, lambasted you for being late, or ruining their plans. It was rarely her fault, anyway. Reg ran the firm on a shoestring and had no idea of management. He took the scanty profits, and she and the other drivers took the ample abuse.
Mr Bradley didn’t appear to be in. She knocked twice and then rang. Silence. That was another disadvantage of the job. You trailed all the way to some outlandish place and then found the passenger had disappeared. On Tuesday, she’d waited two whole hours at the airport for a Mr Wong (Peking), and when at last the flight arrived, he wasn’t even on it. You didn’t get paid for all that wasted time. OK, she didn’t really need the money, but the principle was wrong. She knocked once more, and began to walk away down the crumbling stone steps. Acton looked dingy and faceless, as if it had been overlooked or abandoned by the Great Builder in the Sky.
‘Hi there!’ said a deep voice from the direction of the dustbins. Frances looked up and saw a pale blue corduroy bottom and two matching legs. The head was out of sight, the arms elbow-deep in tins and tea leaves.
‘Would you be looking for James, by any chance?’ The voice was muffled – there was still no head.
Frances stopped in her tracks. ‘Who?’
‘Jim. He gets all the good-lookers – lucky bloke. Flat 3, top floor. Just walk up. The bell’s out of order.’
Suddenly, the bottom turned round and a top came into view – quite an appealing one. The red and white checked shirt was open to the navel, revealing an exotic purple vest and a mass of hair curling on the chest. The hair on the head was lighter, streaked by the sun into stripes and shadows. The eyes were yellowish green, the mouth grinned. There were tea leaves in his hair.
‘I was searching for a fish-hook,’ he explained. ‘The one that got away. You wouldn’t have a fish-hook concealed about your person, would you?’
‘No,’ said Frances. She genuinely wished she had. It suddenly seemed important to be the sort of female who walked around with fish-hooks in her handbag.
She took a step towards the dustbins. ‘Would Jim be Mr Bradley?’
‘What?’ He was sitting on the largest dustbin now, pulling the petals off a dandelion.
‘Mr Jim Bradley?’
‘Mr Ned Bradley.’
‘Ah, you know him then. Where is he? I understand he ordered a mini-cab.’
‘He did, he did. About a hundred years ago. Sadly, it never came.’ The dandelion was only a stalk and a centre now. He twisted it through his lowest buttonhole, disturbing the hair.
‘Oh, it did. It has, I mean. I’m it.’
‘You’re Medfield Mini-Cabs?’ He laughed delightedly and the stalk fell down inside his shirt. ‘My stars were right, for once. ‘‘An apparent disaster will be turned to your advantage.’’ Star-Scope in the Mail. Terrible rag, but I read it. What are you born under?’
‘I think it’s Virgo.’
‘Think? You should know, my love. Astrology rules our lives. That’s bad, though.’
‘What is?’
‘Well, Sagittarius and Virgo. They’re horribly incompatible. I think I’d better walk to Southmead! On the other hand, there may be some mitigating factors. Perhaps our moons are in the same sign, or we’ve both got Libra ascendant. Shall we risk it?’ He slithered off the dustbin and brushed his blue bottom. His trousers were deplorably tight. Frances tried to concentrate on higher things.
‘Look, let me get this straight. Are you Mr Bradley?’
He nodded. ‘Call me Ned.’
She tried to ignore his cheerful grin. ‘The Mr Bradley who ordered a mini-cab?’
‘You’re quite a girl, aren’t you? Is this interrogation part of the service? Yes, of course I ordered the bloody cab. I was just about to phone and tell them what I thought of them. But perhaps I can tell you. I’d like that. You’re pretty and bossy and you’ve got the most smashing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. And you’re lovely when you’re angry. That’s what they say in bad B-movies.’
She drew herself up to her full five foot. ‘I understand, Mr Bradley, there were also some sheep to be transported.’
‘Christ! I’d clean forgotten about the little blighters. You’re a clever girl, you know. You deserve a reward.’ He handed her a second dandelion, allowing his hand to brush against hers for longer than it should. There were strange foreign colours mixed and marbled in his eyes. She tried to look away. He wasn’t even handsome – too small, too messy – so why on earth should he light up everything around him? Even the dingy house and the bedraggled front garden leapt into shining focus when he looked at them. He took the steps three at a time and then ran back to fetch her. ‘I’ll need your help with those godforsaken creatures. Do you mind? How about a coffee before we start? To give us strength. Come in, come in. Welcome to my shambles!’
Reg had said emphatically that Mr Bradley was in a rush, and if he wasn’t, then she most certainly was. She had letters to write, and a list for Mrs Eady, and her notes to prepare for the Historical Association. Just because she’d been dazzled by too much charm and a couple of dandelions … ‘Look, Mr Bradley …’
‘Ned.’
If only he wouldn’t sparkle like that. It was easy being cold and offhand to the Mr Smythes and Mrs Barkers, but this one seemed so sunny, he was frost-proof.
‘Have you got a name?’ He had suddenly, maddeningly, lured her through the front door. The house smelt of cats. The hall was high and bare, with flaking yellow paint.
‘Mrs Parry J …’
‘Oh, just my luck, a Mrs. Shouldn’t I have guessed. Jim gets all the single ones. Let’s pretend you’re single, shall we? What’s your first name?’
‘I only took this booking as a favour, Mr Bradley. I was on my way home, and …’
‘Home to hubby?’
‘No, my husband’s away, if you must know.’
Why in God’s name had she told him that? He was rude and nosey enough already, without her breaking all the rules she’d made. Charles always advised her to create a new set of rules for every situation, so she’d drawn up her Medfield Mini-Cab Code the very first day – coldness, caution, and monosyllables; no names, no revelations, no chats, no chatting up. And yet here she was almost moving in with Ned.
He walked through a dirty corridor into a jungle of a kitchen. ‘Coffee or tea? Except there isn’t any tea.’
‘Look, Mr Bradley, I make it a rule never to mix business with pleasure.’
The near-naked chest collapsed with laughter. ‘Do you know, I never knew people actually said things like that. Let alone laser-sharp girls with eyes like damn great sapphires. And I bet you don’t take sugar.’
‘No.’ Well at least it was a monosyllable. He was so relaxed and easy, he made her feel ridiculous. She was safe enough, really. There were people upstairs and it was still broad daylight.
He was searching for the coffee, which he found at last in an empty Campbell’s soup can. ‘I had to pinch the jar for bait. Do you find you’re always needing empty jars?’
‘No.’ Another monosyllable. She was still keeping to the rules.
‘I suppose you’re not a fisherman?’
Frances picked her way through an assortment of empty cardboard boxes. ‘Fisherwoman. Or would it be fisherperson?’
Ned turned round and grabbed her arm. ‘Are you one? How absolutely incredible. Do you know, I only ever met one woman who fished, and I think she was pretending. To be a woman, I mean. Coarse or sea?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, do you fish in rivers or in the wide open brine?’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr Bradley, but I don’t fish at all.’
‘Oh, just my luck. Why did you say you did, then? Never mind, I expect you’re a scuba diver or a Black Belt, or something just as worthwhile. Black or white? Don’t say white, until I’ve sussed out the milk situation.’
The kitchen clearly contravened the requirements of the Health and Safety Act. An overweight black cat was sitting in the larder gobbling the remnants of a greasy chicken carcass. The cooker was tangled with dangerous-looking wires, which trailed, unsheathed, across the dirty floor. Every surface was covered with what appeared to be the contents of a jumble sale – a broken bird cage, a tea-stained set of Shakespeare’s tragedies, a left slipper, a right gumboot, a stack of broken 78s, and three-quarters of a bust of Cardinal Newman.
‘Sit down.’ Ned cleared a space on a home-made pine bench. Frances sat, gingerly. A second cat sprang on to her lap, turned round three times and settled down with a sigh.
‘Rilke,’ he announced. ‘I can’t introduce you, as you’ve only got a surname and cats prefer people to have Christian names.’
She stroked the silky fur. At least he must be educated if he called a cat Rilke. One gold star – she couldn’t grudge him that, and perhaps her Christian name as well.
‘Happy to meet you, Rilke,’ she said. ‘I’m Frances.’ The cat closed its eyes and purred.
‘Amazing what they do for a cat. It’s like Jim, People go on their knees for Jim, reveal their whole life histories, lend him a fiver. Alas, I’m only human.’
If she grinned like that at everything he said, it would give him ideas. She pretended she was smiling at the cat, though she didn’t much like cats. They were unhygienic and left hairs on your clothes. Still, she had to admit Rilke was rather a charmer, with his long swishy tail and appreciative purr.
‘My kingdom for a cup!’ carolled Ned, searching the breadbin, but finding only a packet of mortar mix. ‘There’s never a cup in this kitchen. Do you mind drinking out of a vase? You do mind. I can see it on your face. Right, a cup it shall be. Hold on a minute, I might have a mug in here.’ He opened the fridge and Frances peered in, under his arm. It was almost empty, save for two or three glass jars. The coffee jars. Except they weren’t coffee. Frances clutched her stomach.
‘There’s something – er – moving in your fridge.’
‘Yes. King rag and Dungeness lug, that’s all. Bait for the thirty-pound cod I plan to catch each week. I keep it cool in there.’
Frances stared into the cruel hooked mouth of a twelve-inch worm with a myriad little legs. A second worm was writhing in the sand at the bottom of its jar.
‘Look, Ned … (if she used his name, at least it would sound less rude). Please don’t bother with the coffee. I never drink coffee after five, anyway.’ She didn’t want to offend him, but it was crazy risking some lethal disease – fish poisoning or dysentery – for the dubious benefit of a vaseful of Maxwell House.
He didn’t look the least offended. ‘Tell you what, we’ll have tea at the Poly. They flavour it with cyanide and have the cheek to charge 12p – and that’s subsidized – but at least you get a mug. In fact you get a real cup and saucer, and I can see you’re a cup-and-saucer girl. A matching cup-and-saucer girl, in fact.’
‘A Minton china matching cup-and-saucer girl.’ It was quite a fun game to play and he laughed so nicely when she joined in.
‘Right, coffee cancelled, sheep reprieved. Cats fall out, Frances follow.’
He marched out of the kitchen into another, far less tangled room. She did follow, amazed at her own submission. The room was almost elegant, with its high moulded ceiling and dove-grey walls. In front of the sofa stood a flock of paper sheep, fleeces white and woolly, noses black and shiny. A large green cardboard tree soared above them, heavy with white lace blossom, and a Dresden shepherdess smirked through her frills, brandishing a gold-foil crook.
‘Oh, isn’t it gorgeous!’ Frances fell on her knees in front of it, caressing the curliest of the sheep.
‘’Course it is. I made it. Now wait a tick. It all folds into itself, for easy transportation, as they say in the blurb. Here, give me a hand with that tree, will you. It’s losing half its leaves. Gently does it. I hope you’ve got a big car.’
Frances hardly heard him. She was still bewitched by his handiwork. ‘So you’re an artist?’ That would explain the shambles. Artists were always bohemians – it was one of Charles’ rules.
‘Oh no, I’m not, my love. I’m a part-time lecturer in Media Studies, whatever those may be.’
‘Then how …?’
‘Oh, just a sideline. I’ve always loved making things. It’s the Poly dance tonight – end of term rave-up. This is just part of the decorations. We’re having a pastoral theme – green fields and dreaming spires, you know the sort of thing. The Poly’s such a bloody ugly building, the poor deprived students have to invent their cardboard fantasies. Another bloke’s bringing Morris dancers – plastic ones, of course.’
‘But it’s perfect. And so beautifully made. You’ve really got talent.’
‘Thank you, I’ll be blushing in a moment. Now perhaps you’ll allow me to address you by your name?’
‘Well, I …’
‘Thanks, Frances. Nice name, it suits you. But what on earth are you doing, driving a mini-cab?’
She wished she knew herself. ‘Look, aren’t you going to be late for this dance affair?’
Ned dismantled the shepherdess’s crook and tucked it under one arm. ‘Horribly. I promised to be there hours ago, to fix this lot up. Not that they’ll miss a few sheep. There are plenty of other lazy sods to help lay out the drinks. Hold on a tick, I suppose I’d better grab a jacket.’
She was glad to see the jacket matched the trousers. Rather unusual, a suit in pale blue corduroy. It would have looked better cleaned and pressed, but a man who was so clever with his hands could perhaps be forgiven for neglecting his clothes. Though the purple vest was definitely a disaster.
Ned wolf-whistled the car and settled himself in front. She couldn’t object – the sheep needed every inch of grazing space at the back.
‘Know the way to the Poly?’
‘’Course.’ It was back to monosyllables. She should definitely control herself if she’d started taking an interest in his vests. He talked enough for both of them and, somehow, he kept turning her monosyllables into jokes, and then she had either to laugh, or to defend herself, and either way she was using far more words than one. She was amazed when they reached Southmead. There was still a lot of traffic and it should have taken the best part of an hour, but they seemed to have arrived in seconds.
The building was long, low and so ugly, it was almost endearing; the foyer crowded with students who overflowed into the concrete garden outside.
‘Cash or account?’ said Frances. It was high time she got back to a business-like approach, and back home, too, while she was about it.
‘Account? You must be joking! A penniless teacher like myself? I cadged a lift with a friend today, but he let me down, the swine. Medfield was only a very last resort. A lucky one, though, I must admit.’ The greenish eyes had a deplorable knack of knifing right into her when she was off her guard. ‘And I shan’t g
ive you a tip, unless you help me with my sheep. You can park the car just here in front.’
‘Well, I can’t be long. I …’
‘Ned! Thank Christ you’ve arrived. We’re knee-deep in nymphs and shepherds, and not a bloody sheep to be seen.’ A large, bearded man who looked like Christ’s bigger brother almost capsized Ned with a friendly slap on the shoulder. Ned dropped the tree and showered himself with white lace apple-blossom.
‘Get off, you brute! And say hello to Frances.’
‘Who?’
‘Frances Parry something. She’s a deep-sea angler, and incidentally the best woman driver I’ve ever met.’
‘Hi. I’m John.’
Nobody appeared to have a surname. Charles was most punctilious about introductions. Both names repeated twice, distinctly, plus a brief description of the person’s job, interests and station in life. Well, Ned had done almost that, even if he’d got it all wrong. Another gold star. Somehow, she liked awarding him gold stars. She held on happily to two furry legs, while Ned and John manipulated the rest of the sheep through the door and up the staircase. They were assaulted by the wailing vibration of a group and vocalist, performing at the back of a large, dark hall, which was crowded with students and dizzy with revolving lights. Although it was early and still light outside, the party was full-blown. Paper flowers were festooned across the ceiling, and five and a half lopsidedly curvaceous dryads sprawled along one wall. A huge cardboard sun blazed in one corner, with golden paper streamers lurching from its centre, some already torn and trailing. John dodged a herd of dancers and a clump of polystyrene marigolds, and began to nail the sheep in place, just above the bar. Frances clung on to a woolly tail, while Ned made minor adjustments to the shepherdess’s undergarments.
‘Great!’ said John, standing back and surveying the pastoral idyll. ‘Absolutely great! I’m only sorry I couldn’t come and fetch them. Car blew a gasket.’
‘I’m remarkably glad it did.’ Ned’s strange marbled eyes looked almost black in the darting light. ‘How a blown gasket led me to True Love. Read next week’s enthralling instalment as the Ice Maiden of Richmond prepares to walk out in high dudgeon …’
Cuckoo Page 5
