by Jan Ellis
Since coming out of retirement (with some local encouragement), Bill was once again flavour of the month and was often to be found on TV quiz shows. Philip had done well to book Bill to open the festival – free of charge – as his manager liked to keep him busy.
Bill made a short speech saying how happy he was to be in Combemouth then sang a verse from one of his hits, which the crowd joined in with enthusiastically. Once his official duties were over, he rejoined Brenda then went across the grass to seek out Daniel and Eleanor.
“Hello duck, how are the arrangements going for my launch?”
“Not too bad at all,” said Eleanor. “I think Georgie has everything under control.”
“Hello Brenda,” said Connie, coming up to join them with Joyce in tow. “I see you’ve been keeping busy, Bill. Harold and I went to see your show with our salsa group and we thought you were marvellous.”
“Thank you, Connie. It’s very decent of you to say so.” Joyce stood there slightly starstruck, waiting to be introduced. “And who’s this here?” asked Bill. “Your twin sister?”
“Certainly not! This is my old friend, Joyce.”
“I’ve come all the way from Spain to see you,” said Joyce, simpering. She had arrived in town a couple of days before and was resplendent in shocking pink.
“Spain, eh? As it happens, me and the wife have a little place on the Costa del Sol, just up the coast from Torremolinos.”
“What a coincidence.” Joyce put a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “So do I.”
Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “Have we met before? I’ve a feeling I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“At the yacht club, perhaps? My husband and I always enjoy an evening by the marina.”
The mention of a husband seemed to reassure Brenda that Joyce wasn’t likely to be a threat and she relaxed a bit.
“Ay, the wife likes it there though I think it’s overpriced. Anyway, we’d best get on. Adiós.”
“Adiós Bill, Brenda.” Joyce smiled, flushed with success. “What a nice man. And isn’t Mrs Widget stylish?”
“Orange is a bold choice at her age and all that crumpled linen is not to my taste, but I’m sure it hides a multitude of sins.” Connie looked around. “Where’s your father, Daniel? I’d like him to meet Joyce.”
“I last saw him in the cake tent with Maureen, admiring the apple pies.”
“Come along, Joyce. There’s no time to waste.”
Eleanor smiled as she watched Connie drag her friend across the green. “You’d better keep an eye on your dad, Dan. Mum’s keen to distract Joyce from Harold, so Malcolm could end up as the tethered goat.”
Daniel grinned. “Dad’s old enough to make his own mistakes. And it would be nice for him to have a companion.”
“I’m not sure Joyce would be much of a companion – she lives in Spain for half the year and disappears off to a bungalow in mid-Wales for the rest of it.”
“Dad likes a woman who has been about a bit…”
“From what Mother says, that describes Joyce to a T.”
Daniel laughed. “What I mean is a woman who has travelled – lived abroad, that kind of thing. Dad spent many years in the Middle East and North Africa before he settled down with my mother, don’t forget.”
“I had forgotten that. So you might be right. And we could do with some romance in our lives.”
“Aren’t I romantic enough for you?” asked Daniel, leaning over to kiss her.
“You can never have too much romance, I’d say,” she said, returning his kiss. “Shall we go and see what’s happening over there?” Eleanor pointed towards a tent strewn in green, purple and gold shawls with a huge rainbow banner by the door. Outside sat a woman with dyed red hair and so many bangles on each plump arm it was a wonder she could lift them. Eleanor smiled as she recognised one of the bookshop’s bestselling local authors, Lavinia Threlfall.
“Hello Lavinia. I see the vicar has roped you in, too.”
“I like to help where I can.”
“What are you up to here?” Eleanor popped her head through the flap and breathed in the scent of joss sticks. “Let me guess – either you have a crystal ball in there or you’re reading palms.”
Lavinia didn’t laugh. Instead she pursed her lips and pointed to a small sign pinned to the side of her tent which read “Authentic Tarot Card Readings £5”. “As you can see, I’m offering to read the cards – I don’t do palmistry and my crystal ball never leaves my bedroom. It’s far too precious to travel.”
Eleanor’s smile transformed itself into a rictus grin as she took Daniel’s hand and backed away, nodding. “Marvellous. What fun.”
Lavinia’s eyebrows shot up at the word “fun”. “Tarot is a serious method of divination that has been used for centuries, as you should know.”
“Of course. Well, it was nice to see you. Bye.” She turned and whispered to her husband. “I think I put my foot in it there. Let’s see what else we can find.”
“This is always entertaining,” said Daniel, pointing towards three ladies separated by screens, each with a bowl of fruit. “It’s the human fruit machine.”
He raised his hand to wave at Joe and Georgie. Georgie had arrived from London the day before to spend some time with her boyfriend before Bill’s launch. They had met when Georgie handled Lavinia Threlfall’s book launch at The Reading Room some years before. Georgie had since become Joe’s sort-of girlfriend but, as she lived in London and Joe was in the South West, it wasn’t always easy. However, Georgie had recently begun working freelance, so she and Joe hoped to see each other more than once a month. With them were Crumpet and Bella who was wearing a rosette, having come first in the Waggiest Tail category at the dog show.
“I have no idea what’s going on here,” said Georgie, looking bemused.
Eleanor laughed. “It’s a game of chance like roulette, but with slightly worse odds. Joe, show Georgie how it works.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes – it’s for charity. Don’t be such a skinflint.”
Sighing, Joe sloped over and gave the man in charge of the game 50p then pulled the wooden arm that activated the “fruit machine”. As he did so, each of the ladies selected a piece of fruit from her bowl and held it up.
“Ah, bad luck Joe,” said Daniel.
From left to right, the three ladies had chosen a banana, an apple and an orange.
Joe sulked. “I have never won at this game – I’m sure it’s rigged.”
“It’s not rigged,” said Eleanor, “the ladies can’t see each other. Don’t be such a bad loser.”
“I think this is brilliant,” said Georgie. “I must have a go.” She went across and handed over her money. “Okay now, ladies, I’d like you to concentrate, please.” She rubbed her palms together and closed her eyes. The wooden arm went down and the ladies made their choices: left to right, orange, orange, orange.
“You’ve won!” said Eleanor.
“How exciting,” said Georgie, laughing. “But what have I won?”
The chap at the desk pointed at the motley selection of items on display. “Take your pick, my dear. I’m afraid the best prizes have already been taken, but I hope you’ll be able to find something.”
“Tough call,” said Joe, his hand on Georgie’s shoulder as they considered the display. “I think it has to be the bedsocks or the bottle of Blue Nun.”
“Blue Nun? Is that wine?”
“Allegedly. But if you don’t want it, I’m sure my gran will be happy to take it off your hands.”
* * *
Connie and Harold had gone to join their friends from the dance group. This was led by Alfonso, a skinny, moustachioed gent in his seventies who had arrived in Combemouth after a career on cruise ships and in various holiday camps. The local men had been doubtful when their wives developed a sudden interest in Latin moves, but their anxieties were calmed when Alfonso took up with Linda from the greengrocer’s.
Alfonso’s troop had one of the open-sided tent
s on the green, and were showing off their paso dobles to the locals.
Joyce was a nifty mover and more than happy to join in. Daniel had to laugh at the look of pure horror on Malcolm’s face as he was pulled onto the dance floor and twirled around.
Chapter 20: All the Fun of the Fair
Bill was in his element shaking hands and signing a few autographs, but Brenda looked pained as she wandered around the green, the heels of her Jimmy Choos sinking dangerously into the grass.
As Bill’s manager, Brenda disapproved of too much smiling, arguing that it went against the bad-boy image she had spent so many years building up. To counteract the impression that Bill had gone soft, Vince – his chauffeur, ex-roadie and best mate – accompanied them to events. Now he hung around in a black suit doing his best to scowl and look menacing.
Bill smiled at his wife. “You’ll have to take those shoes off or the vicar will be after you for damaging his croquet lawn.”
“He’ll have to put up with a few holes because I don’t intend to walk around in flat shoes for anybody.”
“Take ’em off altogether and enjoy the sensation of fresh grass between your toes!” Bill was used to Brenda being grumpy and generally ignored her or teased her out of it.
His wife gave him a look as though he’d suggested she strip off completely. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Shame. You’ve got pretty little toes,” he said, patting her on the rump.
Brenda grabbed his offending hand in hers. “Behave, will you? There could be paparazzi in the shrubbery.”
“I doubt it, duck. Let’s have a bit of a wander around and see what’s happening.” He studied the pages of the festival guide then looked up at the church clock. “I think we’re in time for the ferret racing.”
“I’m not going anywhere near those horrible creatures. Everyone knows they’re vicious and smell to high heaven.”
“That’s a myth. They’re lovely animals.” A misty smile lit up Bill’s eyes. “My dad kept ferrets and they were very nice, affectionate things. Stinky, I grant you, but so would you be if you lived in a cage inside a shed.”
Brenda sighed heavily. “Is there anything less rustic going on?”
“There’s an arts and crafts tent, my sweet. Shall we have a gander?”
“I suppose we ought to take a look while we’re here.”
As they entered the tent, Brenda wrinkled her nose – as far as the Botox would allow – at the handmade crafts while Bill and Vince seemed entranced.
“Look at this, Boss – it’s a bog dolly,” said Vince, picking up a pink crocheted toilet-roll holder. “My mother always insisted on covering up loo rolls with these.”
“Your house always was the poshest in the street,” said Bill. “We had to make do with that shiny toilet paper at ours.”
Brenda’s hands were placed firmly over her jet-black bob, screening her ears from the offending words. “Will you two shut up about lavatories!”
“Sorry sweetheart. Are we embarrassing you?” Bill knew well that his wife preferred to forget the ordinary working-class backgrounds they all shared. “Let’s look at the art, shall we?”
“It’s not much better than the handicrafts.” Brenda sighed at the array of amateur watercolours depicting kittens, wonky landscapes and peculiar abstracts.
“Well now, but that’s rather good, don’t you think? The artist has captured me in my prime there. Who painted it, duck?” At the end of the tent, set apart from the other artwork, was a large canvas. On it was a portrait of Bill skilfully drawn in black ink with energetic splashes of tangerine and blue bursting out around his head.
Brenda perused the list of paintings. “It’s by somebody called A. Kulda.” She tipped her head from side to side, tapping the list against her hands. “It is quite striking and it would fill a space in the new house.”
“If you want it my sweet, I’ll buy it for you.”
Brenda turned and gently stroked Bill’s face. “You’re a good, generous husband.”
“Generous? Oh dear,” he said smiling, “is it very expensive?”
“No, not at all.”
Bill waved at Vince, who carried his boss’s wallet for him. He extracted it now from an inside pocket and handed it over. “In that case,” said Bill, “let’s have them wrap it up for you.”
Brenda stopped his hand. “I’d like to think about it for a while first.”
Bill shook his head at Vince who quietly put the money safely back into his jacket.
* * *
After wandering around the various stalls, Eleanor and Daniel bumped into Frederick Williams, the previous owner of The Reading Room.
They exchanged greetings then Eleanor remembered something she had been meaning to tell him. “I found some newspapers and magazines of yours at the shop and I wondered whether you wanted them back.”
“My dear, the last thing I need is more clutter – you’re very welcome to the lot. All the interesting editions were sold years ago, so I can’t imagine they’re even worth keeping.”
“There are some quite amusing advertisements I might cut out and frame. And the Victorian crime reports are fascinating, too.”
“Is that so? I’m afraid I never had the patience to read the tiny type,” said Frederick.
Eleanor smiled. “I don’t mind the tiny type if the story’s gripping.”
Daniel saw Mr Williams’ puzzled expression. “My wife has become obsessed with a Victorian theft.”
Eleanor dug him in the ribs. “I’m not obsessed – I’m developing an interest in local history, that’s all.” She thought for a moment. “But I don’t suppose the name John Able rings any bells, does it Mr Williams?”
Frederick thought for a moment then shook his head. “No, I can’t say it does.”
“Never mind,” said Eleanor. “I’m enjoying doing the research.”
“Well, that’s the main thing.” Mr Williams smiled and took his wife’s hand. “We’re off to Bat the Rat.”
“Good luck.”
At that moment, Dismal Deirdre hove into view carrying a red clipboard and making straight for them. “Oh no, spare me,” said Eleanor under her breath. “The Head of Logistics is heading this way.”
“Hello Deirdre. How’s it going?” asked Daniel, stepping forward to screen his wife from her foe.
“It’s going splendidly, thank you. I have something for you, Eleanor,” she said, unclipping an envelope from the clipboard and reaching behind Daniel to hand it over. “It’s John Able’s transportation records.”
Eleanor muttered her thanks, but was saved from having to respond more fully by the vicar who came bounding over.
“Sorry to interrupt, but would you mind terribly taking your place on the bookstall? There’s already quite a queue of literature lovers forming!” He smiled at her encouragingly. “I’ll take you over there if you’re ready.”
Suddenly, Eleanor felt rather nervous at the thought of appearing in front of everyone as an expert. “Okay,” she said, following the vicar.
Daniel squeezed his wife’s hand encouragingly. “You’ll be fine.”
Chapter 21: An Interesting Encounter
Philip led Eleanor across the green to a quiet area where a rather dapper gentleman in a white suit and Panama hat was seated under a blue and white striped awning by the side of the church.
“That’s Mr Cheetham from the Waterborough Auction House.” Philip waved a hand in greeting. “He’s on furniture and objets d’art.”
Eleanor covered her mouth, doing her best not to giggle at the auctioneer’s unfortunate name.
“This is your spot over here,” said Philip, indicating a table where three people were already waiting patiently with books in their hands. “You’ll be needing this for the takings,” he said, handing Eleanor a large biscuit tin. “Good luck!”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, grasping the tin and walking over to her table.
It was mid-afternoon and the sun was blazing down but th
e huge umbrellas erected by the organisers in case of rain did equally good service as parasols, so Eleanor had a nice cool spot for her valuations.
Soon her nerves calmed and she began to enjoy looking at people’s books. She had dads bringing in their Beano albums, elderly ladies with much-used copies of Mrs Beeton’s cookbooks, and endless streams of youngsters with battered copies of Harry Potter. She oohed and aahed over everything and took notes of interesting editions, promising to advise the owners of values later in the week.
After an hour or so the rush was over and Daniel came across with a cup of tea and some of Maureen’s shortbread. “How’s it going? Found any treasures, yet?”
“Lots! Though only treasures that are worth something to their owners.”
“How much longer are you on duty? I’d like to have another stroll with my wife at some point.”
“I’m supposed to stay at my post until half past – can you manage without me until then?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.” Shading his eyes against the sun, Dan searched the green. “In any case, I need to find Dad and see how he’s coping with Joyce.”
“She doesn’t still have him locked in a tango, does she?”
“Nope – I think Maureen rescued him from the dance tent but Joyce was in hot pursuit.”
“A tug of love – how thrilling! Come back and tell me if there’s any romance going on, won’t you?”
“I will,” said Dan, with a wink.
* * *
Half an hour later, Eleanor had valued a set of Mr Men stories, an original Jackie magazine and had promised to research the price of a signed 1906 edition of The Mayor of Casterbridge. It was time to put away her notepad and find her family. Peeking inside the cash box, she reckoned her “customers” had added about £30 to the vicar’s appeal fund, which she hoped he’d be pleased with.
She was about to call it a day when she heard wheezing and saw a new customer heading her way.
“Am I too late? I do hope not.”
Trundling towards her across the grass was an elderly gentleman tugging a tartan shopping trolley. Eleanor vaguely recognised the man as one of the old boys who sat together by the bandstand, leaning on their sticks as they watched the world go by. Joshua, she thought his name was. Breathlessly, he sat down opposite Eleanor and looked her up and down. By his feet was a Yorkshire terrier – not much bigger than your average guinea pig – whose ears twitched nervously. Given that the dog was dressed in a fluffy pink coat, the twitching could have been due to embarrassment.
