‘Where the hell is he? Where the hell is he?’
‘Ask as many times as you like, Lanasaurus. The answer’ll still be “we don’t know”,’ Deano said. He nodded to the plates on the coffee table. ‘Try some of this game pie, it’s delish. Going to be our big seller for Tour weekend.’
‘I don’t want game pie. I want to know where Stew is.’ My eyes went wide. ‘Oh God, what if he’s had an accident? He might be lying in a ditch somewhere. And we’re all here, gobbling pie and swigging prosecco like the bastards we are.’
‘There’ll be an explanation, you’ll see,’ Tom said.
‘There’d bloody better be.’ I got to my feet. ‘I need a drink. Let’s get another bottle open.’
Uncorking the prosecco made me think of Harper, probably tucking into his second bottle of Dom Perignon by now while us lowly proles made do with the £7.99 stuff from Sainsbury’s. And that made me think about Stew again, and the night we’d first met. Where was he?
‘Lana!’ Tom called from the living room. ‘It’s Stew!’
I felt a surge of relief. He was here. Thank God.
I went into the living room and glanced around. ‘Where’s Stew? Didn’t you buzz him up?’
‘Not here.’ Tom nodded at the TV screen. ‘There.’
I looked at the telly. A choir were performing a bit of Handel’s Messiah outside a manor house 20 miles away, Monkton Hall.
‘You what?’
‘He’s in the crowd,’ Deano said. ‘We just saw him.’
My eyebrows shot up. ‘He stood me up so he could go watch bloody Songs of Praise? I’ll kill him!’
‘It’s not Songs of Praise,’ Tom said.
‘What is it?’
He snorted. ‘Your mate. The Harper Brady Live NYE Extravaganza.’
‘Oh God, is he a presenter now?’
‘Apparently.’
The choir finished and Harper appeared on screen, smiling his most charming smile.
‘Beverley Minster Choir there,’ he said. ‘Coming up we’ve got a chimney sweep whose services as a bringer of luck are always in demand at New Year, and a couple who shared their first kiss as the bells chimed in 1946.’ His face set into an earnest expression. ‘But first, there’s something important I need to talk to you about.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe it. He’s good at this, too.’
He had a very natural presenting style, easy and conversational, as if everyone in the audience was his best mate. Whatever lucky star Harper Brady had been born under, it clearly had a wicked sense of humour.
‘These sort of shows are so cheesy, aren’t they?’ Cameron said. ‘It’s always the same sentimental crap, couples celebrating golden anniversaries and that.’
‘Stew, can you come on over?’ the telly Harper said. A second later Stewart had edged into view, grinning nervously under a thick beanie.
I frowned. ‘All right, lads, what the heck is going on?’
Tom looked as bewildered as I felt. ‘Don’t ask us.’
‘This is my cousin, Stewart McLean,’ Harper told the cameras. ‘Say hi, Stew.’
‘Hi Stew.’
‘Ugh. That joke is ancient,’ Deano groaned.
‘Give him a break,’ Cam said. ‘He’s obviously nervous.’
‘Some of you will remember him as a demon in the saddle back in his cycling days,’ Harper went on. He held up the microphone to Stewart. ‘So. Busy year for you. Want to tell us about it?’
‘Thanks, Harper.’ Stewart’s voice was trembling, but he fixed the cameras with a determined look that seemed to be aimed straight at me. ‘It has been a busy year. Sadly, I was forced to give up professional cycling 18 months ago due to injury. Since then I’ve made my living running a bike shop in a wonderful little village called Egglethwaite.’ He paused to take a deep breath. ‘A group of us have worked hard this year to get our viaduct reopened as a right of way.’ The programme cut to a picture of the viaduct, but we could still hear Stew’s voice over the top. ‘This project was very dear to a village resident who passed away recently, Phil Donati.’ I felt a jolt as the viaduct faded into a photo of Dad, grinning happily – and slightly tipsily – at the bar of the Sooty Fox. He was in a battered top hat and shabby suit, back in the days when Egglethwaite Players were still in existence and Dad was their star turn.
The picture cut back to Stewart and Harper.
‘Sounds a lot of work,’ Harper said smoothly.
‘In a very short time. In six months, we raised over £50,000.’
‘Why so quickly?’
Stew seized the prompt gratefully. ‘Because our ultimate aim, as a memorial to Phil, was to bring next year’s Grand Départ route through Egglethwaite. We felt the viaduct would be our unique selling point, and a lasting legacy for local people.’
‘Did it work?’
‘We were told so.’ Stew looked sober now. ‘The lady in charge, Vanessa Christmas, promised we’d be recommended for inclusion on the route.’
‘But?’ Harper prompted.
‘But last night I spoke to a friend who’d seen an advance copy of the Stage 2 York to Sheffield schedule. It passes within five miles of Egglethwaite – but it doesn’t pass through.’ His eyes seemed to be looking right at me. ‘We’re not getting the Tour.’
Chapter 44
I clapped my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh my God! No. No, that can’t be true.’
‘It has to be.’ Cam shook his head in disbelief. ‘So it’s all been for nothing. All our hard work – wasted.’
‘It’s not fair. It’s just… not fair,’ I whispered.
‘But why would they do it?’ Tom demanded of no one in particular. ‘We did everything they wanted. The viaduct’ll be open in plenty of time, just like we said.’
‘Shush,’ Deano said. ‘Stew’s still talking.’
‘Really?’ Harper was saying to Stewart. ‘They didn’t include you on the route after you were told they would?’
‘Yes. It’s going to upset a lot of people – not least Phil’s children, Tom and Lana, who pioneered this project in his memory.’
There were disapproving mutterings in the live audience gathered outside the hall.
‘We’re going to take a break now,’ Harper said. ‘But before we do, I’d like to make a personal appeal to the Tour organisers to reconsider their decision and give little Egglethwaite the opportunity they fought so hard for. It is still the season of goodwill, after all.’ He flashed a winning smile to the camera, and the picture cut away to an Alka-Seltzer ad.
‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered. I jumped as my phone buzzed on the table.
‘Stew?’ Tom asked when I examined the screen.
I shook my head. ‘Vanessa Christmas.’
I went into the kitchenette to take the call in private.
‘Mrs Christmas,’ I said when I picked it up. ‘Look, I had no idea Stewart was planning to – ’
‘Save the excuses, Miss Donati. I’m not a fan of blackmail tactics.’
‘Well, I’m not a fan of being lied to,’ I said, hackles rising. ‘Why did you chuck us off the route? If it’s going five miles away it could go through Egglethwaite just as well.’
‘It was merely felt other communities had a right to consideration,’ she said stiffly.
‘That’s not what you said before though, is it?’
‘Well, that was then.’
‘I don’t see – ’ I stopped. ‘Wait. Is this about that thing on telly with me and Sienna Edge?’
‘That was certainly… unfortunate,’ she admitted. ‘The Départ is a family event. Publicity like that…’
‘But you heard what she said to me. What would you have done?’
‘That’s neither here nor there.’
‘Yes it is! It is here or there!’ I snapped. ‘Come on, Vanes
sa. If she’d accused you of exploiting your husband’s memory that way, what would you have said?’
She hesitated. ‘The same as you, perhaps,’ she said at last. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact of it. The organisers saw the footage and they were unanimous.’
‘Then it’s all my fault. Again.’ I blinked back tears. ‘Oh God. We worked so hard. The others – the village…’
‘Now, now. Don’t get upset.’ She sighed. ‘Blackmail it may be, but it is still Harper Brady on national TV.’
‘What’re you saying?’
‘I just spoke to the organisers and they agree: we can’t fight the support your Mr McLean’s little stunt is likely to garner. It won’t be easy changing at this stage but you’ve left us with no choice.’
‘Oh my God! Then we’re back on?’
‘That’s right. We’ll be making the official announcement in the next few weeks. Have a happy New Year, dear.’ And she hung up.
When I took my seat back in the living room, the choir were just singing in the second part of the show, Harper and Stewart chatting quietly beside them.
‘Well? What did she say?’ Deano demanded.
I blinked, feeling dazed. ‘She… she’s got them to reverse the decision.’ I managed a foggy smile. ‘Tour’s still coming, boys.’
Tom let out a low whistle of relief. ‘Thank God. Nothing like a small heart attack to see in a new year, eh?’
I grabbed my phone to text Stew.
You big idiot. It worked, we’re back on the route. Love you.
On the TV, I saw the miniature Stew fish out his phone and smile. He whispered something to Harper as the music of the choir faded.
Harper cleared his throat. ‘Well, our switchboards have been going mad here with people ringing in to support tiny Egglethwaite and their Le Tour bid. Nothing the British love more than a plucky underdog, right? But you can calm down now, folks. I’ve just been informed that the race organisers have found their festive spirit. Egglethwaite and their viaduct shall go to the ball.’
There was a loud cheer from the crowd on the screen, and another from the four of us at home.
‘I think you’ve got one more thing to say before we move on to our next feature, Stew?’ Harper said, holding out the mic.
‘Yes,’ Stew said, flushing. ‘There’s one person watching I need to say something to, especially as I did the ungentlemanly thing of standing her up for a date so I could come here tonight.’ He held something up, and the cameras zoomed in to reveal a small silver star.
‘Good idea. Sweeten her up with jewellery,’ Harper said with a grin. There was a laugh from the crowd.
‘This isn’t a present. She has to earn it.’
‘What is it?’ Cameron asked.
‘It’s a charm,’ Tom said. ‘Stew got her a bracelet for Christmas.’
‘What does it mean though?’ I said.
‘Ah, now this I do know about,’ Tom said, smiling. ‘Wait and see.’
‘Are you watching, Lana Donati?’ said TV’s Stewart McLean. ‘The charm goes with something you’ll get in the post in a few days. Me and your brother signed you up for BSc Astronomy at the University of Central Lancashire. Part-time distance learning, so you can fit it around work. I know you’ll make your dad proud.’
I gasped. ‘No. Not really, Tommy?’
‘Really,’ Tom said. ‘I had to steal a few exam certificates from your room, hope you don’t mind. Me and Stew paid the first year’s course fees between us.’
‘Aww. You guys.’ I threw myself at him for a hug. ‘You’re a sneaky git but I love you.’
‘Anything else?’ Harper said to Stew on TV.
‘Er, no, that’s me done I think.’
‘No it isn’t.’ His cousin nudged him. ‘Go on, tell her. My viewers like a happy ending.’
Stewart blushed. ‘Oh, all right. I love you, sweetheart. Save me a drink and I’ll be there in time to kiss you at midnight.’
There was loud applause from the crowd as Stewart faded to black.
Epilogue
I shook Tom, snuggled deep into his blankets.
‘Oi. Wake up, you.’
‘Wur…? Z’it Christmas?’
‘Better. It’s race day.’
Two hours later, we were dressed – head to foot in eye-watering canary yellow, the pair of us – and ready to inspect the village. Every resident, club and business had been working tirelessly to get the place ready, and there wasn’t a window on the main street that didn’t have a themed display. Even the undertaker’s had a bike-motif headstone.
‘Is our display finished?’ I asked Deano, who was outside the restaurant with his new girlfriend Shelley, attaching yellow bunting to the front.
‘Almost,’ he said, stepping back to admire it. ‘I think your dad would’ve approved. It’s about his level of daft.’
Stew had been hard at work sourcing old bikes for everyone who wanted to decorate one, and I was quite proud of the medieval effort currently gracing our front window. Deano had even managed to coax Galahad on to it, a lance tucked under his arm ready for a spot of cycle jousting and a yellow jersey stretched over his broad tinman pecs.
‘Whose idea were the antlers on the handlebars?’ I asked.
‘Mine,’ Shelley said with a little blush. ‘I thought it’d be sort of rock and roll.’
‘Shell’s dead artistic,’ Deano said, giving her backside a proud pat. ‘We met at a pottery class.’
She giggled. ‘It was like that bit in Ghost. He showed me where to put my hands.’
‘I just bet he did,’ Tom said.
‘And you’ll be all right in the restaurant this afternoon, will you?’ I asked Deano.
We’d wanted to take a few hours off to see the race, so he’d been left in charge of the two waitresses and four temps we’d hired for the day.
‘I’ll manage. Looking forward to being the boss.’
Tom slapped Deano’s shoulder. ‘See you later then, guys. We’re just going to check out the main street then we’re heading up to Pagans’ Rock.’
‘See you.’ Deano plucked Tom’s elbow as we turned to leave. ‘Oh, er, I sent your picnic ahead with Stew. Capisci?’
Tom gave him a significant nod. ‘Thanks, mate.’
After we’d inspected the front of Stewart’s shop, his bums polished up specially and a now finished Herbert the yarnbombed bike taking pride of place in the window, we headed to the temp.
‘Nice,’ Tom said with an approving nod.
The gardening association had done an impressive flowerbed display, gorgeous petunias planted in red, white and blue strips to form the French Tricolor. At the edges, white rose bushes symbolised the link with Yorkshire. A couple of yellow bikes painted by Egglethwaite Young Cyclists, the group Stewart and I had started up, flanked the bed at each side.
Crowds were already gathering, walking up and down the street examining the windows. Every B&B and campsite in the area had been heaving with cycling enthusiasts for days.
‘Let’s check the Fox,’ I said to Tom.
‘Bonjour,’ Billy said soberly from under his moustache when we’d barged in. He’d gone the full comedy Frenchman: beret, stripy jumper, even a string of onions. In the background, Queen’s Bicycle Race blared from the speakers.
‘I hope you’re not going to offend anyone French in that getup,’ Tom said.
‘Nah, it’s all good fun. If a French lad comes in, I’ll sort him out with a whippet and a flat cap so he can get his own back.’
I winced when I looked behind the bar.
‘Do you have to have that up?’ I said, nodding to the calendar. ‘Those aren’t even my real legs.’
‘Don’t worry, love. No one’s looking at your legs,’ Billy said with a grin. He nodded at my chest. ‘I know those’re real.’
&n
bsp; ‘Nice. So are you all set then?’
‘Yep. Free brie baguettes for everyone, La Marseillaise in the CD player and a range of French wines and lagers behind the bar. Hoping for standing room only by dinnertime.’
I slapped his arm. ‘You’re a good lad, Billy, I don’t care what they say. We’ll be in for a drink once it’s all over.’
After we left the pub, we walked down the bunting-crossed street to inspect the other windows. Jean had done another topiary bike, Yolanda’s caf had a twee little picnic scene with a basketed 1950s-style cycle, and there were a dozen others. Then we popped into the church to make sure the bellringers were ready. Every church on the route had agreed to ring their bells when the peloton passed through, a cacophony of sound from York Minster to Sheffield Cathedral marking the once-in-a-lifetime event.
Finally, we headed to the viaduct, where Sue, Gerry and Yolanda were decorating.
‘Bloody hell. Don’t go too far over,’ I said to Gerry when we got up there. He was leaning over the wall attaching some giant bunting to the outside. ‘We don’t want our first viaduct fatality today.’
Sue snorted. ‘Oh, don’t bother, Lana, you can’t tell him anything. He’s determined his precious bunting’ll be visible from space. If he wants to break his neck in the process, good luck to him.’
Gerry finished attaching the bunting and turned to blow his wife a kiss.
‘Is this the same Uncle Gerry who thought this was a terrible idea that’d give his sheep a nervous breakdown?’ Tom said with a smile.
‘Well. Hard to keep that up when I’ve got the three of you constantly bending my ear about it,’ Gerry said with some pretty unconvincing grump.
‘Plus he’s minting it,’ Sue said. ‘We made a small fortune letting our fields to campers. The way to a Yorkshireman’s heart is through his wallet.’
‘Where’s Yo-yo?’ I asked.
‘Over there.’ Sue pointed out Yolanda, her hair dyed the vibrant blue of the Yorkshire flag for the occasion, attaching bunting to the other end of the viaduct with a man I didn’t recognise.
‘Who’s the lad?’
‘Her latest toyboy. Nephew of someone in her bridge group.’ Sue shook her head. ‘She’ll have to slow down one of these days. Swap the blue hair for a blue rinse.’
A Bicycle Made For Two: Badly behaved, bawdy romance in the Yorkshire Dales (Love in the Dales Book 1) Page 33
