by Ali McNamara
‘Really?’
‘Yup. You’re quite the local celebrity.’
‘I hardly think so.’
Tom shrugs. ‘I only speak what I hear. Do you want some help advertising the event? You know, posters, that kind of thing? I can see you’re really, really busy right now with your reading . . . ’ He winks.
I give him a wry smile. ‘That would be lovely, Tom, thank you. I hereby put you in charge of advertising and organising the car boot— I mean, the courtyard sale.’
‘Wait, I didn’t say I wanted to organise it,’ Tom says, looking dismayed.
‘I could ask someone else, but with all your connections down at the pub, I think you’d be the ideal person, don’t you? And you do sort of owe me a favour after the Mr Sheen incident . . . ’ I wink at him.
Tom sighs. ‘You’re a hard taskmaster, do you know that?’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Your ancestors would be proud of you.’
‘All in the blood, my good friend,’ I say, tapping the diary. ‘It’s all in the blood.’
Twenty-one
As it turns out Tom does a great job of organising the sale. Posters quickly appear all over the village advertising Chesterford Castle’s very first courtyard sale, and very shortly after that spaces at the twenty or so tables we’ve decided we can fit in the courtyard rapidly begin to sell out. So when the day of the sale finally arrives, just over two weeks after we’d sat on the deckchairs discussing it, the castle courtyard is filled with people chattering happily away in the sunshine I’d prayed for, getting ready to sell their wares to the customers that are just starting to filter through the castle gates.
I’m really proud of how we’ve all pulled together as a team today. Joey is on the gate, taking a reduced entry fee from people on the understanding that they can wander around the outside of the castle as well as visit the courtyard sale, but the inside rooms of the castle will not be open to the public today. Dorothy is serving teas, coffees and cakes on a makeshift stall ably abetted by her new favourite – Benji, who is wearing a very fetching straw panama hat to shelter him from the sun – and her always favourite – Charlie, who is more excited than anyone about the sale. He’d offered up some of his old toys and books for us to sell, on the understanding I was to allow him to buy anything he wanted with his pocket money from the other stalls. This had seemed like a good deal, until I saw a man unpacking several large models of various spaceships and figurines from one of Charlie’s favourite film franchises. At this rate we’d be bringing more stuff back to the tower tonight than I was selling.
But I don’t have time to worry about that; Tiffany and Tom are helping me out on the castle’s stall and we are already surrounded by potential buyers perusing our stock. Over the top of their heads I can just see Arthur wafting about the crowds generally overseeing everything and everyone as usual.
‘You have a wonderful stall, Lady Chesterford,’ a well-dressed woman says as she looks over the several trestle tables we’ve managed to fill. ‘With some . . . unique items.’ She pauses at three vintage toilet flushes.
‘Thank you,’ I reply cheerfully, deciding it would be impolite on this occasion to correct her way of addressing me. ‘We’ve had a good clear-out. I hope there’s something for everyone here.’
‘I’m sure there will be. Bill’s been keeping me up to date about this and everything that’s been going on at the castle since you arrived.’
‘Oh, you must be Hetty,’ I say, pleased I’d remembered the name of Bill’s wife. ‘How lovely to meet you.’ I hold out my hand. ‘I’m Amelia Chesterford.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Hetty says, shaking my hand. ‘Bill’s told me all about you.’
It was difficult to know by Hetty’s tone whether this was good or bad.
‘And Bill’s mentioned you too,’ I say, keeping up my smile. ‘I understand you’re the president of our local WI.’
‘I am, amongst many other things.’
‘Well, I hope Bill has also told you that we’d love it if you’d bring some of your groups to visit the castle. Once the new tea room and gift shop are open I hope to welcome lots of local societies to the castle for visits and tours.’
‘He did, and I’m sure we’d be delighted to accept your offer. Of course, as the new Countess, you would be most welcome to join us any time at one of our WI group meetings.’
‘Er . . . yes, of course . . . that would be lovely. But I think I should point out I’m not actually a countess.’
Hetty raises an eyebrow and gives me a peculiar look.
I’m aware that lots of new customers are approaching the stall. Tiffany and Tom are dealing with most of them, but I’m soon going to be needed.
Hetty looks as though she’s about to launch into some very detailed questioning about why I’m not a countess, so smiling at her I say, ‘It’s been lovely to meet you, Hetty, but as you can see we are starting to get a little busy now. I do hope you enjoy the sale.’
‘I’m sure I shall,’ Hetty says, obviously deciding now is not the appropriate time for her questions. She picks up one of the romance novels and I see her eyes widen as she glances at the text on a random page.
I leave Hetty and begin to take money from people eager to make purchases from us. Ours is by far the most popular stall at the moment – with everyone making a bee-line towards it when they come through the gates. Partly to buy things, I note, and partly just to have a nose at what we’re getting rid of.
But soon all the stalls seem to be equally busy and I feel a tad less guilty at hogging all the customers.
In a rare lull, I notice Tom talking to an attractive woman with highlighted hair tied up into a bouncy ponytail on top of her head. The woman doesn’t seem to be that interested in buying anything that’s on our stall. Her interest appears to be solely in the stall-holder behind it.
‘Amelia,’ Tom calls, beckoning me across. ‘Come and meet Rachel; she works at the Chesterford Arms – the pub I was telling you about.’
‘Hi,’ Rachel says, nodding her blonde head towards me in greeting. ‘You must be the new lady of the manor I’ve heard so much about.’
‘Hardly,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘Someone just left me in charge, that’s all.’
‘U-ha,’ Rachel says, weakly acknowledging my joke.
‘I was just saying to Rachel that we should get you down to the pub and introduce you to a few more people,’ Tom says eagerly. ‘They’re a good crowd down there. I’m sure they’d love to see you one night.’
Rachel’s expression suggests this was not likely to have been her idea. I get the feeling she’d probably prefer to have Tom to herself.
‘That could be fun,’ I say, smiling deliberately at Rachel. ‘What sort of things do you get up to down there – apart from drink beer, obviously?’
‘We’ve got a pool table, and a dartboard,’ Rachel says flatly, as though this should be more than enough entertainment for anyone.
‘Cool.’ I nod.
‘So what do you reckon, Amelia?’ Tom asks. ‘You up for coming down there one night?’
‘Sure.’ I smile. ‘Why not? Oh, do excuse me, won’t you? We have customers again. Nice to meet you, Rachel.’
‘Likewise,’ Rachel says, barely able to hide the disdain in her voice, and I wonder if the local pub might not be quite as friendly towards me as the school playground has been so far.
‘How can I help you, sir?’ I ask, bounding over to a stout little man waving his hand impatiently at me.
‘How much is this?’ He’s holding up an ancient stuffed dog with a crazy wild-eyed expression, one of my least favourite items on the stall.
‘Er, twenty pounds?’
He pulls a face. ‘I was thinking more like ten.’
‘Shall we meet in the middle, then?’ I suggest cheerfully. ‘How about fifteen pounds?’
He thinks about this. ‘Twelve,’ he says flatly. ‘It’s probably flea ridden.’
‘Twelve pounds it is, then,’ I agree through gritted
teeth.
I hold out my hand and he dumps two five-pound notes along with two one-pound coins unceremoniously into it, then he simply walks away.
‘Charming,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘Don’t sweat about it,’ Tom says, moving next to me now Rachel has gone. ‘These people aren’t all locals to Chesterford, you know; some of them have come quite a way for this.’
‘Really. Why?’
‘Probably think they’ll get a bargain this being a castle ’n’ all. Something that might prove to be worth a lot of money.’
‘But I checked really carefully to make sure I wasn’t getting rid of anything valuable.’
‘Ah, but they don’t know that, do they?’ He winks.
‘That’s true.’
‘So you’re up for a trip down the pub one night?’ Tom asks as though he’s clarifying that I genuinely meant what I’d said.
‘Of course. I’m not sure I’m going to receive quite the welcome you think I am, though.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Your barmaid friend was hardly welcoming, was she?’
‘Rachel?’ Tom asks, apparently oblivious to Rachel’s offhand manner. ‘Nah, she’s okay. Always friendly and attentive when she’s behind the bar.’
‘Well, of course she is to you!’ I laugh.
Tom looks blankly at me.
‘Don’t you see it?’ I ask him. ‘She quite obviously fancies you.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Tom says, his cheeks reddening. ‘She’s just being friendly – that’s her job.’
‘Didn’t you see her face when you said you wanted to bring me down to the pub – it was stonier than some of our gargoyles.’
Tom thinks about this. ‘No, you’re just being paranoid.’
‘I am not. I know a jealous woman when I see one.’
‘What has she to be jealous of?’ Tom asks. ‘It’s not like we’re a couple or anything. It’s hardly a date we’re going on . . . is it?’ And I wonder if I detect a hopeful note to his last question.
‘No,’ I insist hurriedly. ‘It’s not a date. Just a way for me to meet a few more of the locals.’
‘Yeah . . . ’ Tom says, nodding quickly. ‘It’s just that. Nothing else.’
The people continue to flood in to the sale, and we continue to sell, so by the time two hours have passed our three trestle tables have been reduced to one.
‘It’s going well, isn’t it?’ Tiffany says. ‘We’re not the only ones who have almost sold out.’
I glance at some of the other stall-holders and see their tables are beginning to look a little bare too, and everywhere around us there are people sitting on benches in the sun happily drinking cups of tea and coffee, eating cakes and sandwiches, with their new purchases sitting firmly by their feet.
A great sense of achievement washes over me. Our first event appears to have been a success!
‘I’d like a refund,’ a voice says next to me, bursting my bubble. I look towards the voice and see the rude man who had bought the stuffed dog earlier clutching it under his arm.
‘I’m sorry?’ I ask, wondering if I’ve heard him correctly.
‘I’d like a refund; my wife doesn’t like it, she said it’s haunted.’
‘Haunted – what’s haunted?’
The man looks uncomfortable. ‘She thinks the dog is haunted. She’s funny about these sorts of things.’ He shrugs. ‘She said there was no way she could possibly have it in our house. So I’d like a refund.’
‘But this is a car boot— I mean a courtyard sale. We’re not a high-street shop.’
‘Makes no difference. I know my rights and I want a refund.’ He places his empty hand defiantly on his hip.
I feel myself start to redden. It wasn’t the man’s request so much – strange though that was – it was his attitude. I detest rudeness and bad manners in all their forms.
‘Course you can have a refund, mate,’ I hear Tom say next to me. ‘Here’s a tenner.’
‘I paid twelve,’ the man says petulantly.
‘Got a receipt, have you?’ Tom asks in the same light but firm tone.
‘No . . . but—’
‘Then you ain’t got no rights, mate. I suggest you take this and be grateful for it.’ Tom thrusts a ten-pound note in the man’s face.
The man glares at Tom, then at me, then he dumps the dog unceremoniously on the table, snatches the note from Tom’s hand, and storms off.
I grin at Tom. ‘That was amazing. Well done.’
Tom shrugs. ‘Ars— I mean, idiot.’
‘Nah, I think you were right the first time.’ I wink at Tom and he grins back at me. ‘I think we make quite a team,’ I say, holding out my hand for him to shake, but instead Tom takes hold of my hand and kisses the back of it.
‘I am only here to serve you, m’lady,’ he says, bowing.
‘Oh Lord, don’t you start with all that nonsense,’ I tell him.
‘Aw, I think it’s sweet,’ Tiffany says, grinning at the two of us. ‘Tom is quite the hero after saving Charlie on that roof. He could be Prince Charming to your Cinderella.’
‘Tiffany,’ I say, blushing furiously, ‘I’m hardly Cinderella, am I? This isn’t some rags-to-riches fairy tale.’
‘I dunno.’ Tom winks. ‘It is a bit of pantomime at times living in this castle. Talk of the devil, here comes the villain of the piece.’
I look over to see Arthur walking towards our stall.
‘Aw, that’s not fair,’ I whisper to Tom. ‘Arthur is a lovely man and you know it.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he says, digging me gently in the ribs with his elbow. ‘I’m only kidding.’
‘How’s it going, Arthur?’ I ask as he arrives at our stall. ‘Have we made a profit?’
‘Oh, we’ve done very well out of this. Very well indeed,’ Arthur says, smiling for once. ‘I won’t have the final figures until later, but I must admit although I wasn’t keen on this idea when you first suggested it, I now stand corrected. It seems there are a lot of people who are very keen on buying other people’s junk. I had no idea.’
‘I’m pleased you’re pleased,’ I tell him. ‘I think it’s been a great day. Everyone seems very happy.’
‘Everybody’s certainly smiling on this stall!’ Benji says, joining us now. ‘What have you all been up to?’ he asks, lifting his hat so he can see us better. ‘You look like you’ve all been on the happy juice!’
I turn to Tom and find he’s looking at me with a similarly affectionate expression as I am him.
‘It’s behind you,’ Tom calls suddenly.
As everyone turns around to see what he means, I feel Tom’s hand gently caress the small of my back, but he’s so fast that by the time everyone has turned back again his hand is casually running itself through his dark hair.
‘Pantomime joke,’ he explains to the others. ‘Isn’t that right, Amelia? Or should I call you . . . Cinders?’
Twenty-two
‘Benji, can I ask you something?’ I say one evening as Benji and I sit at the top of my tower watching the sun go down over the sea. Benji had brought along a bottle of Pino Grigio to celebrate the fact that at last the renovations on the stables are nearing completion and we’ve just set a date for the grand opening in two weeks’ time.
‘Anything, sweetie; you know that,’ Benji says laconically, as he stretches out on the deckchairs we’ve borrowed from the castle grounds, so we can sit up here together and wait for the stars to appear in the clear night sky above us.
I’ve just put Charlie to bed, so it’s time to relax at last.
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’
Benji’s eyes open wide. ‘That I was not expecting. I thought you were going to ask me something about Tom!’
‘Tom? Why would I ask you something about him?’ I try to keep my voice as steady as possible, but Benji isn’t fooled for a moment.
‘Really?’ he says, looking over the top of his glass. ‘We’re playing that game, are we
?’
‘I really don’t know what you’re referring to,’ I say in my most refined voice, then I grin.
‘I’ve seen you whenever he’s around – you go all coy.’
‘I do not!’
‘Yes, you do; your cheeks go pink, just here,’ Benji reaches across and gently touches the centre of my cheek, ‘and you go all Princess Diana.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’
Benji tips his head forward and looks up at me with a doe-eyed expression, then he bats his eyelids.
‘I do not do that!’ I say, laughing at him.
‘Well, maybe not quite that bad, but it’s similar. You like him, don’t you?’ Benji asks, studying the contents of his wine glass thoughtfully.
‘Maybe . . . ’ I admit reluctantly. ‘Just a bit.’
‘I thought so.’ Benji gets up and begins to examine the collection of shells that Charlie keeps on one of the window sills from his many visits to the beach. ‘I’m overjoyed for you both. Tom is a top guy.’
‘There’s nothing going on yet,’ I insist.
‘Yet being the operative word!’ Benji says triumphantly. ‘Sorry, I’m teasing you. It’s nice you’ve found someone. Like I said, I’m pleased for you. You deserve to be happy.’ He turns to examine Charlie’s shells again.
‘Benji, is something wrong?’ I ask quietly, sensing it might be. Benji has behaved oddly before when we’ve talked about Tom. It was almost as if . . . No, it couldn’t be . . . I was stupid to even think it. But it did seem like he might be a tiny bit jealous.
‘No, of course not,’ Benji says, turning to look at me again. ‘Why would it be?’
‘No reason.’ I shake my head, feeling relieved. Benji and I are just friends. There’s nothing more to our relationship than that. There had been a time once, before we moved to the castle, when Benji had been spending a lot of time with us that I’d wondered briefly if it might develop into something else, but I’d quickly realised that my feelings for him were not of a romantic nature at all. I thought he was great: funny, smart, kind and articulate. But I simply didn’t find him attractive – not in that way, anyway – and I was pretty sure Benji felt the same way about me.
