Lula Does the Hula

by Samantha Mackintosh

  ‘You were so great last night,’ I said.

  ‘I was,’ said Pen. ‘No trauma there.’

  ‘You’re good.’

  ‘I am. I’m good.’

  ‘Good at coxing too. It’s a bonus that you didn’t get supper yesterday. This way there’s less for us crew to carry.’

  Pen punched my arm. We ate toast half-heartedly, watching Bludgeon drink coffee outside. He said it wasn’t professional, like, to hang around ’avin’ brekkers wi’ the clients. Our ears perked up when his did at the screech of tyres at our front gate.

  Pen thundered out the front door and up the front path to smile at a car with claw marks across the bonnet.

  ‘Hey!’ I said, following at a more leisurely pace. ‘Why are you driving Bludgeon’s car, Mr K?’

  Pen nudged me and hissed, ‘Do I look pale and interesting?’

  ‘So pale, so interesting.’

  Angus, Pen’s boyfriend, hopped out of the passenger seat and came over for a kiss. From Pen, not me. But still. Ew.

  ‘Well, Tallulah,’ said Mr K. ‘It’s all part of the service. I do drive exceptionally well.’

  ‘I bet.’ I grinned. ‘Are you and the seniors looking forward to the regatta?’

  Mr K shuddered. ‘Not I.’

  ‘You’re not?’ I was surprised. Pen and Angus were only surprised by how lovely each other tasted. Double ew.

  ‘Madame Polanikov is insisting that I hula with her. At the luau.’

  ‘Seriously? Come in, come in, tell all!’

  ‘No, no thank you – just came to pick up Bludgeon. We’ve got a couple of people to talk to. Hello, Bludgeon.’

  Bludgeon loomed behind me and I stepped aside so he could get by. He did a complicated handshake with Mr K, and I rolled my eyes.

  ‘What’s the latest?’ I demanded.

  ‘No one’s been caught, if that’s what you mean, but Parcel’s autopsy results are finally available.’

  Bludgeon grinned and clapped Mr K on the back. ‘“Available”! That’s my man.’

  Mr K winced. ‘Well, the news is we’re after a man with a wig.’

  ‘We are?’ That was unexpected.

  ‘Lab results on the autopsy showed Parcel Brewster had advanced lymphatic cancer – should have died months ago. It may be that he fell into the dam in his weakened state and just drowned. Even a nasty bruise on his head and various other bumps and scratches are pretty inconclusive – but they found fibres in his mouth and gullet. Like he’d been eating hair. Though it wasn’t hair, obviously . . .’

  Oh yes! Arns had mentioned that. Maybe Parcel had bitten into his attacker’s head in a struggle – ew! I wished I’d not thought that thought, though a struggle with an attacker would go some way to proving Parcel’s death was not entirely accidental. But it hadn’t seemed to me that any of the Healeys needed borrowed hair . . .

  ‘Mr K,’ I said, ‘maybe we should go to Sassy’s Salon. Wouldn’t they supply wigs to certain customers?’

  ‘No,’ said Bludgeon, unconsciously stroking his bald head. ‘There are special agencies for wig-fitting.’ I raised my eyebrows and he hurried on: ‘But Aunt Sassy will know for sure who in Hambledon has never been into the salon for a snip.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mr K. ‘I’ve already left a message.’

  Big Mama’s, next door to Sassy’s – source of all reliable info, 9 a.m.

  It hadn’t taken much to persuade Mum to go down to Big Mama’s for a breakfast banquet. Mum is the worst cook in the world and we all agreed we needed something substantial to kick off the day of the Port Albert Regatta and Festive Luau!

  Main topic of conversation? Yes: bad men with guns.

  ‘So . . .’ Pen thought for a second. ‘Cluny wasn’t involved?’

  ‘No,’ I said, adding, ‘definitely not. Unless he wears a wig. But I heard those men talking that night and –’

  ‘Yes, yes, so you don’t know for sure.’

  ‘Um . . . Mr Cluny is Helen’s dad. He’s not the scheming, murdering kind.’

  ‘I heard Mr K tell Great-aunt Phoebe that Cluny owes five hundred thousand, and that the bank is threatening to take the crematorium away unless he starts repaying on a ten-year plan. He’s got to be the scheming kind if he wants to keep everything okay for his family. Selling that land would be the perfect solution, and Parcel was the only obstacle to that.’

  ‘Five hundred thousand? How did that happen?’

  ‘Old Mrs Cluny had a thing for online poker.’

  ‘Helen’s mum gambles?’

  ‘No! Her grandma!’ Pen suddenly dropped her voice as Mum wandered off to find a menu and the Carusos. It was strangely quiet here at Big Mama’s. ‘You need to get the bedroom ban lifted,’ she said urgently.

  ‘Ohh,’ I said, ‘really? Seriously? Cos, I was thinking, maybe it’s good! You know, no boys in bedrooms. Takes the pressure off. We don’t have to worry about the whole do-I, don’t-I sex thing.’

  Pen flung her hands in the air. ‘Thinking? That’s not thinking, you cretin! You are unbelievable! You don’t think about anyone but yourself! Some of us don’t have to worry about SEX, because it’s just NOT AN ISSUE!’

  ‘Shh! Keep your voice down!’

  ‘Some of us have clear boundaries with our boyfriends! Some of us are just going to have fun! Getting to know each other! Without having to make polite conversation in the living room! IN FRONT OF EVERYONE!’

  I winced. ‘Okay, I get your point. I get your point. I’ll talk to Mum.’

  ‘You make this problem go away!’ Pen got her stabbing finger out again. ‘Otherwise Angus won’t want to come around any more, I’ll get really moody and make your life hell AND JACK WILL DROP YOU LIKE A SACK OF SPUDS!’

  Suddenly I felt tense. My stomach flipped and all the weirdy feelings I had churning about – the nagging unease that bad people were still out there, that I had a regatta to row on camera, a hula to dance, a family to please, a father who could turn to drink on stage, a boyfriend who hadn’t rung me since I’d snitched on him – it was all too much. The toast I’d had earlier didn’t go well with the mix. I ran for Big Mama’s toilet facilities, not caring that the stall door was shut, and threw up in the bathroom bin till the only thing coming up from my heaving body was stringy bile.

  Pen followed me in, shutting the bathroom door behind us. She handed me a tissue. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Lula.’

  ‘’S all right,’ I whispered, blowing my nose. She handed me another tissue. I wiped my mouth, and straightened.

  The toilet stall door opened. ‘Babes,’ said Bludgeon, barely a metre away, his hand on his fly, ‘if you weren’t so sick right there, I woulda thought you were after a sneaky peek at Mr Enormous.’

  ‘Mr Enormous?’ I croaked. I blinked at him. ‘Seriously? Seriously?’

  ‘Come on, Tatty,’ said Pen, pulling on my arm again. ‘Bludgeon needs to wash his hands.’

  Gianni Caruso finally came over to our table and swept us a low bow. ‘So pleased you can celebrate being alive-a!’ he declared.

  Great-aunt Phoebe tapped a manicured finger on the menu and looked up at Gianni over her stylish glasses. ‘Camomile tea for me, please,’ she said.

  Gianni went round the table taking orders. Pen made me get lasagne.

  ‘This early in the morning?’ I asked, appalled.

  ‘Carbo-loading, Tatty! You want to be responsible for losing the race against PSG today?’ she asked. ‘For being the weak link in the chain? After all that’s happened?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Your friend Alex would be yelling at you right now, but I’ – she looked lovingly at Angus (yes, of course he was there too, and the animals, if you must know) – ‘I am calm and reasonable.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Get the pasta.’

  ‘I’ll have the lasagne,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Gianni.’

  The bell on Big Mama’s door jangled wildly and Tam came bursting in. ‘You are here! Tatty, your life! I swear!’ She shook her head and spun to leave. �
��I’ll be back in five with Carrie and we need all the details!’

  ‘Wait!’ I called. ‘What about your shift at Aunt Sassy’s?’

  ‘Nearly done!’ said Tam, halfway through the door. ‘Alex will be here any minute. Don’t start without me! Just got to finish Esme’s toenails – they’re not getting any shorter.’ Out she slammed.

  Mum shuddered. ‘Esme Trooter’s toenails?’

  ‘You have NO idea what goes on in that salon,’ I replied.

  Aunt Phoebe raised her eyebrows. ‘Thank heavens for small mercies,’ she said, gratefully accepting her tea from Gianni. ‘What happened to your finger, young man?’

  ‘This, Aunt Phoebe,’ said Pen, gesturing to Gianni, who was still looking at the space Tam had vacated with a glazed, lovestruck look on his face, ‘is Gianni Caruso. He has ice skated in the past.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Great-aunt Phoebe. ‘I remember.’

  Big Mama brought over full English breakfasts for everyone, and a steaming plate of lasagne for me. Blue stabbed a sausage happily and gave Boodle a rasher of bacon.

  ‘I have-a for the dog-a,’ sang Big Mama, and she sailed off behind the counter and returned with a paper plate heaped with sausages, and broken-up bread for Biggins too.

  ‘Even before this crisis, Mum,’ I said, ‘you have to admit that I’ve been through a lot.’

  She sighed and speared a mushroom. ‘And?’

  ‘And I think it would be the final straw on my camel’s back if you and Dad started saying we couldn’t have visitors round to our rooms, or choose which visitors they were.’

  Mum examined her plate, and speared a sausage. She held it up, bit it in half with one bite and chewed furiously, staring at Fat Angus.

  He gulped.

  ‘Don’t look at us, Mum!’ protested Pen. ‘We have done nothing to earn distrust!’

  I opened my mouth, thought better of it and closed it again. The less said here, the better. The lasagne was fantastic and while Pen put forward a very convincing case for judge and jury on the difficulties of getting to know a person within the confines of our nutso family living room, I ate ravenously.

  ‘You don’t want to encourage us to sneak off into the dark, dark woods, do you?’ concluded Pen.

  I shot a look at Mum. She was busy with the beans. Carrie, Alex and Tam had all arrived and were talking excitedly to Gianni.

  ‘May I be excused?’ I asked. ‘To sit with my friends?’

  Mum gestured with her fork. ‘Go, go.’

  I went.

  First thing I wanted to know was whether Mr K had asked Aunt Sassy about wigs. Tam was smugly smug smug about having that inside info.

  ‘I can’t believe I know something you don’t, girls.’

  ‘Tam, don’t make me hurt you. What’s the deal with Healey’s hair?’ I thought I was being remarkably polite for a person who still hadn’t had the required daily chocolate dose.

  Tam sighed. ‘I thought it would feel better, knowing stuff. Having the power of knowledge.’

  Carrie laughed. ‘You have the power of the muse – that’s all you get in this lifetime, Tamtam. Now spit it out.’

  ‘Fine, fine. It’s like you thought, Lula – there’s no doubt that Healey wears a wig – Aunt Sassy designed it herself.’

  ‘Yessss!’ I jumped up, punched the air and did a teeny dance of joy. Then something occurred to me and I stopped in mid-rumba. ‘Hang on. I thought you had to go to wig agencies for wigs?’

  ‘Aunt Sassy knows wigs. Look at this town! Most of the locals are well over sixty – how could she not do wigs? She’s a middle-man, kind of, and works with a specialist in the city.’

  ‘So . . .?’ asked Alex. ‘You’re killing us here, Tam!’

  ‘So Mr K took a sample of Mr Healey’s wig hair down to the station first thing. Aunt Sassy always keeps them on file to save colour matching for the next one.’ She clapped her hands. ‘But we want to know about yesterday! And last night! Did Bludgeon really sleep outside your door? Does Mr K know where Healey is?’

  The questions came ever faster. Alex was making me eat chocolate cake, and Tam was making me speak at the same time, but Gianni was getting all confused and the girls had to translate every sentence.

  ‘Mff!’ I said eventually, and clammed up.

  Gianni threw his hands in the air. ‘How you understan’?’ he asked. ‘How?’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of experience listening to our friend when she’s eating,’ explained Carrie.

  ‘She’s always eating,’ said Alex. ‘Always. Bad carbs.’

  ‘But today she did have good carbs,’ said Carrie. ‘Before the cake, I mean.’

  ‘Good carbs for winning races,’ said Alex. ‘You win this race and people will love you again, Tatty.’

  ‘People don’t love her?’ asked Gianni. ‘What’s not to love?’

  He winked at me and I stuck out a chocolatey tongue at him, but I noticed to my satisfaction that as he was teasing me he was twirling some of Tam’s twirly hair and she was getting girly and twirly herself.

  ‘It’s a temporary thing,’ said Alex. ‘I’m on it. Tatty, you’ve had lasagne?’

  ‘Loads,’ I assured her, patting my stomach. ‘I had a lot of empty space to fill.’

  ‘Where do you put it?’ complained Carrie. ‘It’s a good thing you do occasional exercise, Lula. Otherwise you’d be enormous.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, grimacing. ‘Don’t say that word. Never again.’

  ‘What – “enormous”?’ asked Carrie, turning to Tam. ‘What’s wrong with “enormous”?’

  ‘Stop!’ I yelped, waving a fork threateningly at my friends. ‘Stop or the lasagne’s coming straight back up!’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  When I got home Mum was talking nineteen to the dozen on the phone, and Pen was slumped in front of some cucumber slices at the kitchen table.

  ‘Is Dad back with the car?’ I asked Great-aunt Phoebe. ‘I was hoping we could all squish in and go to Port Albert together.’ I wanted to keep my eye on my father. I didn’t want any relapses going down. The thought of him getting all anxious, then all red and sweaty and slurry, especially in front of my friends, made my stomach cramp.

  Great-aunt Phoebe looked at me closely through her trendy specs. I swear that woman can read my mind. ‘You don’t want to go on the bus with the rest of the crew? And aren’t there boys on the bus with you these days? You were fighting for rights with boys over breakfast with your mother. Seems a shame to waste the opportunities that come your way . . .’

  ‘My crew hates me and the boys are terrified of me,’ I said, getting more salad stuff out of the fridge. ‘We got any feta?’

  ‘Who’s getting fatter?’ asked Pen. ‘You calling me fat?’

  I looked at the cucumber slices and gave Pen my what the frik? face. ‘Pen!’ I said. ‘Eat something! You’re going to be hanging on to the rudder wires for a solid five kays, yelling yourself hoarse and steering the best line down the world’s roughest river. You faint mid-race and I really am done for.’

  ‘All the boys can’t be afraid of you,’ said Aunt Phoebe. She raised her voice. ‘Blu-ue! Come and eat!’ She put a piece of chicken on Pen’s plate. ‘What about Jack? And that boy Arnold?’

  ‘Jack spends most of his time with his unbelievably gorgeous flatmate,’ said Pen brutally, ‘so we wouldn’t know about him –’

  ‘Hey!’ I protested. ‘I’m working on that! Besides, he came to rescue us from the Pond. A knight in shining armour.’

  ‘– and Arns is only being released from hospital today.’

  ‘How is Arns?’ I asked quietly, sitting down at the table.

  Pen pulled my plate of salad towards her and shoved some cold Pot Noodle in front of me. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘He hasn’t returned any of my texts. And when I left him on Friday night he was ignoring me.’

  ‘You’re not allowed to have mobiles on in the hospital, Tatty,’ said Aunt Phoebe.

  ‘Y
es, and maybe he was concentrating on his brains not spilling out all over the place, so wasn’t his usual having a laugh with Tatty self.’

  Blue came running in and sat down expectantly. ‘Worms?’ she asked.

  ‘Worms,’ confirmed Aunt Phoebe, pushing a Pot Noodle Blue’s way.

  ‘I eat them with fingers, like twolls do?’

  ‘Today is a princess day,’ said Pen. ‘Princesses use their forks.’

  ‘Trolls use forks also,’ insisted Blue, picking up noodles in her fingers and dangling them into her mouth. ‘For eyeballs, because eyeballs are slippery. When Daddy coming home?’

  ‘He’ll be home by three,’ said Mum, hanging up. ‘Blue, your fingernails are caked in dirt. Please go and wash your hands and come back and use your fork.’

  ‘Three?’ I stole a piece of cheese from Pen’s plate and twirled it up in noodles. ‘You mean we have to take the rowing bus?’

  ‘You do,’ said Mum firmly, ‘so you’d better get your things together to go down there.’

  I swallowed my cheesy noodles. ‘Will you make it to Port Albert in time to see us race?’

  ‘Course we will,’ beamed Mum.

  ‘What are you so happy about, Mum?’ asked Pen. ‘Glad to be alive-a?’

  ‘Very,’ said Mum, ‘plus I’ve convinced the National Trust that they cannot do without Frey’s Dam! They will, in all likelihood, buy it from the Clunys.’

  There was silence while we all stared at Mum, open-mouthed.

  ‘What?’ I said, sounding and feeling stupid.

  ‘While you were out getting nearly murdered, I discovered from Elias Brownfield’s diaries that Queen Victoria took the waters of Frey’s Dam way back when. They’re warm and spa-ish and good for the insides and the outsides, apparently. A lot of history and a lot of potential for excavations. Roman ones, even.’

  ‘Whoa!’ I cried. ‘Genius! Mum, you’re a genius!’

  ‘Frey’s is perfect for them right now. They don’t want any more expensive houses to maintain, and the spiritual history of Frey’s, when linked to Coven’s Quarter, is far older than anything else they’ve got on their books in the area. The Clunys will get the current value of the property, so their money worries will be over, and it will never be commercially developed. Excavated maybe . . .’