“How about my computer?” I said as I cleaned paint off my improvised desk. “Is there computer hook-up here like in Ratko’s room?”
Liam laughed. “Never was a need. Tom’s a complete Luddite.”
But Davey wasn’t laughing. His eyes looked sad under the dark brows.
“Duchess, your computer…I might be able to salvage the hard drive, but it’s pretty bollixed up.”
I should have expected this, but the news hurt.
“I have a friend who might be able rebuild it,” Davey said. “He’s a bloody genius and he’s got parts for everything. But I can’t guarantee when he might get round to it. He sometimes goes walkabout and nobody hears from him for weeks…”
Apparently a common habit around here. I tried to smile.
Davey patted my shoulder. “Buck up, Duchess. I’ve got a desktop in the office, and I’m hardly ever there. I prefer to work with my laptop in my digs.”
“Can I get my mail on it?”
“Of course. The office is warm, too. And Vera’s good company.”
As if on cue, Vera appeared outside of the little room, carrying a tray of tea mugs with a sugar bowl and milk.
“Oh, it isn’t half cozy!” she said as I lifted the blanket door and invited her in. She offered tea all around. “Like a little girl’s Wendy House. She gave me a smile. “I do apologize for Henry. He’s a good bloke, but he seems to have gone right bonkers. I can’t believe he sacked Tom. I’m still reeling.”
“Henry’s a stupid bloody ass,” said Davey, rolling himself a cigarette. “Peter will have to do a lot of persuading to get Tom to come back. And he’ll never find another artist to work for the pittance he was getting.”
Vera shook her head. “Henry’s already replaced him, I’m afraid.”
Liam and Davey looked as if they might spit out their tea. “He’s hired another artist? Somebody local?”
Vera kept shaking her head, as if she wanted to negate her own words. “He’s hired Alan Greene, from the Merry Miller. Something not right about that chap. But he studied at the Royal College of Art, so Henry thinks the sun shines out his bum.”
Davey and Liam exchanged eyerolls as Vera admired the little makeshift room.
“So nice to see those pervy books put to good use,” Vera said. “All this place needs is some nice curtains and a comfy chair.” Her face lit up. “Or a settee. My husband George has been on about getting rid of the wicker settee and ottoman we have in the conservatory. He’d rather have something more modern. Why don’t I ask him and our Callum to bring them round tomorrow?”
I gave Vera a hug—for her offered gifts and her comforting presence. And her charming idea that this ramshackle shelter resembled a “Wendy House.” Of course, I’d feel more charmed if Peter Pan/Robin himself would reappear.
I couldn’t help thinking Tom might be right in his predictions about the dismal future of Sherwood, Ltd.
Chapter 28—Greenwich Mean Time
The little dog Much seemed to have taken on permanent responsibility for my welfare, for which I was grateful. He wasn’t a cuddly dog—just as well since he had a tendency to drool—but he hovered near me wherever I went and, when I prepared for bed in my new digs, he curled up at the foot of the bed.
I slept pretty well, in spite of the cold, thanks to several duvets donated by Liam and Davey. But the sun woke me at daybreak. I’d need some darkening curtains. Also, the trek to the bathroom in the half light turned out to be a dangerous obstacle course. I kicked something that fell over with a clatter as I walked by Davey’s room. His door opened and he peered out.
“Sorry I woke you. I’m trying to get to the loo,” I said. “Difficult in the dark.”
Davey pointed to a stack of plastic buckets in the corner. “Just use one of those,” he said. “Empty it in the morning. That’s what we do.”
So I’d gone from the Countess’s gold-plated bathroom fixtures to this. But as the Manners Doctor always said, “Time spent on regret was time wasted.”
I made my pilgrimage to the flush toilet, but on the way back, I grabbed an emergency bucket.
The next morning, I woke to Vera’s cheerful voice, informing me that George and Callum had arrived with the settee and “a few bits and bobs to cheer up the place.”
Liam and Davey helped open the doors on the side of the warehouse and the four men started bringing in the contents of a good-sized delivery truck. The settee had cushions of much-faded flowered chintz, and its matching ottoman showed signs of having accommodated many feet, but they were charming and comfortable. Vera’s “bits and bobs” consisted of a set of matching flowered curtains, some throw pillows, a pale blue duvet cover printed with ducks wearing bonnets, and a scruffy, but serviceable dresser. Vera’s husband—a smiling, quiet man who made deliveries for a bakery—and Callum, the energetic young son, made quick work of moving things in.
Within an hour, my nook felt almost like a room in cozy English cottage—except for the industrial ceiling many feet above, and the fact that the “door” consisted of a blanket hung on a broom handle hung between stacks of kinky books.
I was so grateful, I hardly knew what to say, but the cheery, matter-of-fact Winchesters behaved as if this were all in a day’s work. Vera told me where to go in town to find “charity shops” that sold second hand towels and sheets.
After I spent the afternoon giving another radio interview, escorted by the ebullient Mr. Vicars, I felt as if my Sherwood adventure might turn out all right, Peter or no Peter. After all, I wasn’t here for romance. I was here to publish a book. And Henry might be a pill, but he seemed a good deal more businesslike than Peter.
Davey showed me how to use his old computer at the desk behind Vera’s. I was disappointed to find nothing from Plant, but, then, I hadn’t even been gone a week. Plant did have a life.
When I returned to my Wendy House, I found an ancient radio on my bed, with a note from Davey saying he’d found it in his room when he arrived, and although the sound quality was “bollocks” it would do for listening to myself on the chat shows.
The radio was about the size of a shoebox and made of red plastic, with big, chrome dials. I turned one and the machine blared to staticky life. After playing around a bit, I tuned in on a man’s voice identifying the station as BBC Radio Four. Then came the tolling of a sonorous bell. Six bongs. Big Ben, ringing the hour of six o’clock: six PM, Greenwich Mean Time. I felt a transcendent thrill. Here I was. In England—the mean; the meridian; the center—where my language, my culture, and my manners came from. A place as solid, sensible and reliable as Big Ben itself.
Peter Sherwood—or whoever he was—might have disappeared. But I was in England, and I was going to make the most of it.
That evening, I found the men in the canteen, eating fish and chips and drinking ale from big brown bottles. They announced Henry had paid them some back pay, and promised to pay in full by the end of the week.
Tom’s absence deadened the mood, but Liam offered me beer and the Professor said he agreed with my assessment of Fangs of Sherwood Forest.
“It’s Twilight for pooftas. And the prose is unpublishable,” he said in a voice edged with anger. “But now the Baron has Henry reading it.”
This seemed odd. “But Major Oak—isn’t that Peter’s domain, not Henry’s?”
“Who knows?” the Professor said. “We’re all mushrooms—to use Meggy’s term.” His voice cracked a bit when he mentioned Meggy, and he looked nervous—so much that I wondered if something was going on between them. “But if you’d like to see my edits for your Dr. Manners book, we might as well behave as if it’s launching as planned. The lads have told me about the tragedy with your computer. But I’ve got your project on a flash drive. I’ll bring it in tomorrow with my edits. I know Peter wanted to go with it as is, but I think it will be even better with a few tweaks. Tiny things. Nothing like the overhaul that would be needed for that vampire mess.”
“I can’t imagine Peter will be h
appy if Henry accepts that silly book,” I said.
Nobody answered. In fact, nobody mentioned Peter’s name again all evening.
The following morning, the Professor came wheeling into my Wendy House with the flash drive and an ancient laptop he said Davey had unearthed from the office. It had a primitive version of Word, so I was able to get down to work. Too old for Internet hook-up, but it allowed me to write. The Professor’s suggestions were good ones.
By afternoon I felt almost cheery, marching to the office dressed in my Burberry suit and Stella boots to meet Charlie for our outing to Lincoln for another interview.
But I found nobody in the office but Vera, her face stiff and pale. She barely smiled as she worked intently on tallying invoices with an ancient adding machine. I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to interrupt, so I booted up Davey’s desktop to check for e-mail.
There was still nothing from Plant, but I found a message from [email protected]. I almost deleted it before I realized Ryder Books must be the name of Silas’s company. He’d only written a few words, but they hit me like a truck.
“Plant is in the hospital. Looks like a heart attack. I took him to the emergency room and they’ve admitted him. No word yet if he needs surgery. I’ll keep you posted. Let me know if you get this, and if there’s a phone number where you can be reached.”
My vision blurred. I didn’t want to let the words be true. I felt a stabbing pain in my own heart. How could this have happened? How could I live without Plantagenet? He was the person I loved most in the world. My best friend. My family. My only family.
Without him, I was trapped in this bizarre place with no way home.
Chapter 29—The Whole Chicken
I sat frozen in the office chair, trying not to let myself sink into despair about Plantagenet. He was going to be fine. I wouldn’t let myself think anything else. Plant was fit. He walked everywhere. Belonged to a gym. And he was a survivor. He’d grown up in the toughest neighborhoods of New Jersey and got himself a full ride to Princeton, then re-invented himself as a sophisticated, urbane playwright.
But I hated myself for not being there with him—and I hated Silas for sending me away.
I managed to type a reply—an entreaty to Silas to let me know immediately if I needed to come home. I told him e-mail was the best way to communicate. I gave him the company phone number, but told him it would be fairly useless, except during business hours, when Vera could take a message.
But Vera didn’t look as if she’d be happy to take anybody’s personal messages at the moment. She sent ocular daggers at Henry and Alan when they came in after what must have been a boozy lunch.
“Duchess!” said Alan, leaning over my desk with beery breath. “Great news. Henry’s going to publish Rosalee’s novel! We’ll have two American authoresses to promote at the same time. Double the publicity for half the cost. You can help out as a tour guide for her. She’s going to be staying with friends in Puddlethorpe, which is only a half hour away.” He hovered by my desk. “Do you mind if I use this computer to send her the good news? That slacker Davey hasn’t yet managed to hook up my machine.” He pointed to an old Powerbook sitting on the desk opposite. “Henry’s promised me a new one, but until then, we have to make do with what we’ve got. This is the one I got as a prize when I won an academic competition at Oxford...”
I only half listened. If I hadn’t just heard that my best friend might be dying, the information that Rosalee Beebee’s dreadful book and mine were going to be linked might have qualified as the worst news ever.
Alan took my seat as soon as I rose. I didn’t really mind. It was time to go anyway. Charlie was late. We were going to have to drive fast to make the interview. I decided to brave Vera’s bad mood and ask if she knew where Charlie was.
“Gone.” Vera’s voice was staccato with anger. “Given his walking papers this morning. Mr. Greene will be taking over his duties.” She gestured at Alan with her head as she kept her fingers on the adding machine, staring straight ahead, her jaw rigid.
I looked to Alan for confirmation of this bizarre piece of news.
“You’re going to do Charlie’s job? But I thought you were taking over for Tom.”
“I’m a two-bird stone,” Alan said, laughing at his own joke. “Henry gets two employees for the price of one. I used to work for Random House, when I lived in New York. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“No. You didn’t.” I wanted to ask him when he fit that in, between getting his degrees from Oxford and the Royal College of Art, but at the moment the important thing was getting to my interview. I didn’t even know where I was to go. “Well, we’d better get going then. We have an appointment in Lincoln in less than an hour.”
Alan didn’t look up from the computer screen.
“I’ve cancelled all that. No point in doing anything until Rosalee arrives.”
As I watched him peck with two fingers at the keyboard of Davey’s computer, I felt acute sympathy with Tom Mowbray and his penchant for punching holes in walls. My anger propelled me out of the building and into the parking lot. I walked along the river, my head so full of rage I hardly noticed the rain escalating from drizzle to downpour.
I charged from the end of the river-walk park through the alley that led to the central square. But the place was gray and colorless—empty now of the tents and stalls of the market-day vendors. I stood in the rain, staring into the Mary Ann Evans tea house. It looked old and dirty through the fogged window. Why had I found this crumbling old mill town charming?
Rain dripped from my hair down under my collar, as the natives rushed along, sensible and dry under their big, practical “brollys,” but I hardly felt the damp or chill. I knew now why anger was described in terms of heat—my body felt as if it were boiling with it—anger at Henry and Alan and Peter and the whole Sherwood mess. Anger at Silas, too. Who knows, maybe his fight with Plant had caused the heart attack. Why was their relationship so volatile? And why hadn’t he bought me a round-trip ticket?
But as the damp soaked in and chilled me, my anger turned inward. This was my own fault in so many ways. If I hadn’t allowed myself to be deluded by Peter’s charm, I wouldn’t be in this grim, soggy place, Silas or no Silas.
It was time for me to end this crazed fantasy and get myself back home, somehow. And I had questions that needed answering. Now.
What hospital had Silas taken Plant to?
What kind of surgery were the doctors contemplating?
What exactly had they said?
Would Silas lend me the money to get home?
I stomped back through the downpour to write another e-mail, immediately.
But Alan was still using Davey’s computer in the office. So was Henry, hovering above him, chortling at whatever they were viewing. When I rounded the desk, I could see hard-core pornographic images on the monitor.
“Excuse me, but I have to use the computer for a moment.” I tried to sound calm. “I have an important e-mail…”
“This is a place of business,” Henry said. “Does your e-mail relate to this business?”
“It’s my best friend. He’s had a heart attack…”
Henry turned his back to me as he ogled improbably endowed females, bruised and bleeding—enduring torture for his amusement.
“You’re making puddles all over the floor, Miss Randall,” he said. “Could you please go outside?”
Fury blinded me as I ran from the room. At that moment, I understood why people kill. If I’d stayed another second, I would have picked up the computer tower and hit Henry with it in his smug, perverted face.
Now it wasn’t only anger that propelled me, but disgust. The images I’d seen on the computer screen made me want to retch. I’d always assumed erotica involved depictions of men and women having sex—or women and women, or men and men, or various mix-and-match assortments. Unpleasant sex, even—in dreadful little outfits. But sex. Not torture. Not what I’d seen on that screen.
I h
ad a memory-flash of Plant at some gallery opening a decade ago, talking about the difference between erotica and porn—
“Erotica is a feather, but pornography is using the whole chicken.”
And here I was, trapped in a big, nasty chicken coop.
Chapter 30—Tricksters
I hid my childish tears by ducking behind one of the big printing machines. I blew my nose and tried to pull myself together.
From the other side of the machine came the echo of a sniffle much louder than mine. I peered into the shadowy corner.
Meggy Poole was talking in an agitated whisper to the Professor, who held her hand. He seemed to be kissing it. Then he pulled her down so he could kiss her lips. Just a quick kiss, but not a brotherly one.
When Meggy saw me, her hand went to her eye, dark with a fresh bruise.
“Oh, you didn’t half give me a start,” she said. “The Professor and me was talking about all this lunacy. Do you believe Henry’s sacked Charlie as well as Tom? It’ll be one of us next. And me Mick has already thrown a wobbly about me bounced paycheck.” She put her hand to her bruised eye.
I wondered if most women were secretly masochists, as the Rod Whippingtons would have us believe. I found myself angry with Meggy—and myself. Why did we put up with it?
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 10
