by Ali McNamara
‘Charlie sure has a lot of shells now, eh?’ Benji says. ‘He’s quite the conchologist. Shell collector,’ Benji explains when I look puzzled. ‘That’s what they’re called.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, there’s a word I didn’t know.’
‘I’m here to educate,’ Benji says, grinning. He sits back down on his deckchair and picks up his glass. ‘I’m glad you and Tom are getting on well,’ he says. ‘It was one of the reasons I suggested he come here.’
‘It was?’ I’m shocked to hear this.
‘Yeah, I’ve known Tom a good few years now. I had a feeling the two of you might hit it off.’
‘We’re hardly hitting it off – we’re just going down the pub together on Friday.’ I slap my hand over my mouth. I haven’t told anyone about this yet.
‘Oh, you are, are you?’ Benji says, raising his eyebrows in exaggerated fashion. ‘The pub . . . And they say romance is dead.’
‘It’s not a date or anything,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Tom thinks it would be a good idea if I got to know some of the locals a bit better – and apparently the pub on a Friday night is the best place to do that. We talked about it at the sale, and then he asked me properly yesterday.’
‘I’ve heard the pub is pretty busy on a Friday night. I guess you’ll get to know a few more of the locals that way than only the school mums, and Hetty and her WI members.’
‘That’s the idea. You’re welcome to come along too if you’d like to?’ I offer.
‘No, no,’ Benji says, dismissively waving his hand at me. ‘I don’t want to cut into your one-on-one time with Prince Charming . . . ’
‘Don’t you start calling him that too. Tiffany seems to think we’re all living in some sort of fairy tale here, with me as Cinderella and Tom as my Prince Charming.’
‘What does that make me, then, your fairy godmother?’ Benji pretends to wave a magic wand. ‘You shall go to the ball, Cinders! Or is that the Chesterford Arms in this version?’
‘I think you’d make an admirable fairy godmother,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve helped me out enough over the last few months. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
I reach over and pat Benji on the arm, and unlike the last time I’d done this, this time I don’t feel that my actions and words might be misconstrued. Something has very definitely changed between us. But I feel it’s only for the good.
Benji looks at my hand and then at me, and I get the feeling he wants to tell me something.
‘What’s wrong, Benji?’ I ask gently. ‘Is there something you want to say?’
Benji hesitates, and then he smiles. ‘Yes, what was it you were going to ask me earlier? Something about ghosts?’ After expertly changing the subject, he takes a large gulp from his wine glass.
‘Oh yes, I quite forgot.’ With all the talk about Tom we’d gone completely off course. ‘I asked you if you believed in them.’
‘That’s right, so you did.’ Benji puzzles for a few moments. ‘Hmm . . . well, I’ve never actually seen one. But then I don’t disbelieve in things just because I haven’t seen them – why do you ask?’
I tell Benji everything that’s happened so far at the castle – from the unexplained noises in the stables to the ghostly goings-on in the Blue Bedroom. ‘And then that man brought back a stuffed dog to the courtyard sale because he said his wife thought it was haunted.’
‘How very odd – how can a stuffed dog be haunted?’
‘I have no idea. But never mind that, what about all the other things – the noises and stuff? And what about Charlie? He seems to think that it’s all very real. He even speaks to them . . . ’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes. And you know Charlie pretty well by now; he doesn’t lie, does he?’
Benji thinks about this. ‘No. He’s an honest kid. But then he has had a lot of upheaval in his life just lately, hasn’t he?’
‘Are you saying you think he’s making all this up?’
‘No, but the mind is a very clever thing. It can sometimes trick you into thinking something is real even when it’s not.’
‘I suppose.’
‘And I imagine you’ve both been told a lot of unexplained things happen in a castle such as this from the moment you first came here.’
I shrug. ‘Possibly. But I’m not imagining these things, am I? Even Arthur seemed to verify the Blue Bedroom ghost.’
‘Seemed to, or did?’
I think about this. ‘I guess he didn’t actually say he’d seen anything with his own eyes.’
‘There you go, then.’
‘But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real, does it?’
Benji shakes his head. ‘Nope. On the other hand, it doesn’t prove anything either.’
‘Ooh, you’re a tricky one, Fairy Godmother, aren’t you?’ I say, lifting the half-empty bottle, first to top up Benji’s glass and then my own.
‘Cinders, you never said a truer word,’ Benji says, lifting his glass and toasting me. ‘You never said a truer word.’
Twenty-three
‘What can I get you?’ Tom asks me on Friday night as we enter the pub and weave our way through the throngs of people up to the bar.
‘I’ll have an orange juice, please,’ I say, looking up at him.
Tom pulls a face. ‘Really? I can’t tempt you into anything stronger?’
I’m not usually a big drinker. In fact, the few glasses of wine I had with Benji the other night was more alcohol than I’d drunk in a very long time.
‘All right then, er . . . ’ I scan the bottles behind the bar. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.’
‘Gin and tonic coming right up – any particular type of gin, or for that matter tonic?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope, anything is fine.’
Tom pushes himself a little further forward, but doesn’t appear to have any difficulty in catching Rachel’s eye amongst all the other people waiting to be served at the bar.
While he gets our drinks I take a quick look around. The outside of the Chesterford Arms looks much like any other country pub might – a small whitewashed building with a thatched roof and a pub sign hanging outside with a painting of a castle – my castle – on it.
Inside the décor is modern and clean with occasional prints of picturesque Northumbrian vistas hanging on the ivory-coloured walls. There are exposed timbers above me with a few named silver tankards hanging from them – presumably for the regulars – and hanging from the wall timbers are various brass objects to add to the traditional feel.
The pub is so crammed right now that there’s not a seat to be had anywhere – from the cosy little booths around the outside walls to the bar stools that surround the large U-shaped bar.
‘Excuse me, love,’ a man says, pushing past me. ‘Oh, Lady Chesterford – I do beg your pardon; I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Hello, Bill, how are you?’ I ask as Bill stares in astonishment at me. ‘And it’s Amelia, remember?’
‘Yes . . . yes, of course. I’m very well, Lady . . . I mean, Miss Amelia. What are you doing down here?’
‘I’m having a drink with Tom,’ I say, gesturing back to where Tom is still waiting patiently at the bar.
‘Oh, I see . . . ’ Bill winks at me and taps his nose secretively. ‘Say no more.’
‘No, Bill, it’s not like that,’ I protest. But suddenly I’m not the only one to be recognised.
‘Bill, mate!’ a burly man says, slapping Bill on the back. ‘How goes it? You finished that moneysucker up at the castle yet? Has her ladyship flushed any more money down the drain this week?’
‘Er . . . ’ Bill, looking horrified, glances wildly from the man to me and then back again.
‘What’s up, mate?’ the man asks him. ‘Dodgy curry? Hello, love,’ he says jovially to me. ‘Haven’t seen you around here before.’
‘Les, let me introduce you,’ Bill says, grinning manically. ‘This is Amelia – the new Lady Chesterford.’
‘Hi, Amel—
What? Bloody hell-fire, I mean . . . oh boll— Greetings, your majesty,’ Les says finally, and in his panic he gives a small bow.
‘Amelia is just fine,’ I say, grinning at him. ‘Pleased to meet you, Les; and what do you do around here?’
‘I . . . I’m a farmer.’
‘Oh, what sort? I mean, what do you specialise in?’
‘Livestock,’ Les says, finally finding his feet on a topic he feels comfortable with. ‘Cows and pigs mainly. We have a few chickens, too.’
‘Organic?’ I ask, an idea unexpectedly forming.
‘Oh, yes. It’s the only way forward these days.’
‘I totally agree. I’d like to offer as much organic produce as I can when we open up the new tea room. I’ve been thinking about offering some organic produce as part of our gift shop, too – you know, like a small farm shop?’
‘I do indeed,’ Les says, his eyes lighting up. ‘I’d be more than happy to provide some samples for you, if you were thinking of sourcing the food locally.’
‘I wouldn’t consider doing anything less,’ I tell him, smiling. I pull one of the new business cards I’ve had printed from my bag. ‘Here,’ I say, passing it to Les, ‘give me a call over the weekend and we can talk business. In fact, if you know of anyone who grows organic fruit and vegetables, too, then perhaps you can ask them to call me as well.’ I give him a second card.
Les looks at the cards and nods his head. ‘I’ll certainly do that. Sorry about before,’ he says apologetically.
‘Already forgotten,’ I say, smiling.
‘I didn’t bring you down here to pass out business cards,’ Tom says, pushing his way back through the crowd with our drinks. ‘This is supposed to be relaxation on a Friday night.’
‘Ah, you hush, young Tom,’ Les says. ‘If the lady wants to do a bit of business in her local, then I’m not going to complain. I’ll speak with you soon then, miss,’ he says, lifting his half-empty pint of beer at me. ‘And I’ll leave you to your relaxation!’
‘Me too,’ Bill says. He puts his empty glass down on a nearby table. ‘Nature calls!’
‘See you Monday, Bill,’ I call as he makes his way in the direction of the toilets.
Tom grins and passes me my drink while both Les and Bill disappear into the throng of people. ‘I see you’ve already made some new friends, then?’
‘Hardly. I already know Bill, and Les is hopefully going to supply us with organic meat for the castle.’
‘But what about the suppliers we already have?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The ones Dorothy uses to supply the food she cooks our dinners with.’
‘That’s different. This is for larger consumption and retail purposes. That would be counted as domestic use.’
‘You have an answer for everything, don’t you?’ Tom says, grinning at me.
‘No. I just know what I want, that’s all.’
Tom raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Oh, really . . . ’
I take a sip of my drink. ‘Gosh, that’s strong!’
‘Double,’ Tom says matter-of-factly. ‘Saves going up to the bar again so soon. It’s manic in here tonight.’
‘I hope you’re not trying to get me drunk?’ I say, eyeing up my glass.
‘Now why would I want to do that?’ Tom asks innocently. ‘You are my boss, after all.’
‘Hmm . . . Pay rise?’ I ask, playing him at his own game.
‘That could be one reason, I suppose.’
‘Hello, Tom,’ a soft voice interrupts us. ‘How are you?’
‘Molly! Hi,’ Tom says to a pretty brunette. ‘I’m very well, thank you – and yourself?’
‘Always better for seeing you, you know that.’
Goodness, Tom’s like a bright lantern beaming out into the darkness of Chesterford. But as opposed to attracting moths and other insects, the females of the village all seem to be drawn to him, fluttering their eyelashes instead of their wings.
‘This is Amelia,’ Tom says, turning back to me as I smile to myself at my analogy. ‘She runs the castle now.’
‘Ah, the infamous Lady Chesterford,’ Molly says, half smiling at me. ‘I had no idea you were so . . . young.’
‘Amelia is just fine, thanks. Lovely to meet you, Molly. Are you local to Chesterford?’
‘Lived here all my life . . . sadly,’ Molly says, rolling her eyes. ‘Never quite escaped . . . yet.’ She looks at Tom as though he might be the one who could enable this escape. Likely on his white charger, while wearing chainmail and carrying a sword.
I smile. Why did everyone, including my own son, see Tom as some sort of hero?
‘And what do you do here?’ I ask, ignoring Molly’s dig at Chesterford.
‘I’m a mobile beauty therapist and hairdresser.’
‘Ah . . . lovely.’
‘Perhaps you’d like me to pop up to the castle sometime?’ she says in a voice that suggests this isn’t a genuine offer. ‘I’m sure I could fit you in for a few appointments . . . I do nails, as well as hair and beauty, and I do a reduced rate for block bookings.’
Cheeky mare! I think, but I politely reply: ‘Thank you so much for the offer, but it’s not really my thing. I prefer a more natural look.’
‘Clearly,’ Molly says, looking me up and down.
I’m about to open my mouth, but Tom, suddenly realising what’s going on, hurriedly interrupts us. ‘Well, it’s good to see you, Molly,’ he says in a voice that suggests this is the end of their conversation.
‘Yes, likewise,’ Molly says, smiling back in a sultry fashion at him. ‘Perhaps we can catch up next week when you’re not so . . . bogged down with work?’ She glances disdainfully at me.
Even though it takes all my resolve, I keep a dignified silence.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Tom says hastily.
‘I’ll be by the pool table if you can shake off the shackles,’ Molly grins, sashaying away so Tom is in no doubt as to her motives. ‘You owe me a game.’
‘Like I said, maybe another time.’
‘Oh, that’s right, you have a pool table . . . ’ I say, looking in the direction of the little room I’d seen when we came in. ‘That sounds like fun.’
‘Play, do you?’ Molly enquires airily, barely glancing at me, her eyes still firmly on Tom.
‘Depends – is it the one with lots of red balls, and they keep taking the balls back out of the pockets when you get them in?’
Molly’s eyes light up with a mixture of glee and danger. ‘Yeah . . . something like that. Wanna game?’
‘No, Molls,’ Tom protests, waving his hand across his throat, ‘Amelia doesn’t want to play pool – you just heard what she—’
‘Sure!’ I say firmly over Tom’s excuses. ‘I’ll try anything once. Lead the way, Molly.’
Twenty-four
Molly leads the way over to the room with the pool table in it, then she scribbles our names on the chalk board hanging on the wall to denote we’d like the next game.
The two young men already playing look at us with interest. ‘Who’s your friend, Molly?’ one of them asks.
‘Lady Penelope, ain’t she?’
‘Amelia,’ I tell them, ignoring Molly.
‘Cool,’ one of them says as he watches the other one take his shot. ‘You new around here, Amelia?’
‘Fairly new,’ I tell him, while watching what’s going on on the table.
‘You live local?’
‘At the castle.’
‘Ooh, fancy, at the castle. What do you make to the new bird up there? Tom here seems to think she’s all right – don’t ya, Tom? Always singing her praises.’
‘Probably trying to get into her knickers, more like.’ The man at the table misses his shot and he stands up. ‘Am I right, Tom?’
My face goes bright red, and I daren’t even look at Tom.
‘You pair of numpties – this is the new bird, ain’t it?’ Molly says, pointing a pool cue at me. ‘This is Lady bloody Chesterford!’
<
br /> Both the men stand upright – as if to attention. I half think they might salute, so I’m very relieved when they don’t.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, m’lady, I didn’t recognise you,’ one of them says, looking mortified.
‘Yeah, me either,’ the other one says. ‘I didn’t expect you to look like that . . . I mean, you . . . you’re fit, ain’t ya?’
His friend nudges him hard in the ribs.
‘Oi! Well, she is, Paul,’ he insists as if I can’t hear them.
I have to smile. ‘Look, please don’t stand on ceremony like this. I’m not royalty!’ I say jokily, trying to defuse this awkward situation. ‘I’m not a lady or even a countess – I’m just Amelia.’
‘Me dad worked up at the castle for many years,’ the one called Paul says, ‘and me granddad before him. They wouldn’t dream of calling one of the Earls or Countesses by their first name, would they, Kev?’
‘Yeah,’ Kev agrees. ‘My aunt and me mum used to be maids up there until a few years ago. Me and my cousins was always taught to be polite to His Lordship.’
‘I see nothing wrong in being polite,’ I tell them. ‘But would you have found the last Earl or his wife down the local pub about to have a game of pool?’ I ask, grabbing a pool cue from the rack.
They shrug. ‘Doubt it,’ Paul says.
‘Right, well in that case, just for tonight I am simply Amelia, not Lady Chesterford, or any other titled name, for that matter.’
I bend down over the pool table, and line up my shot. Then I hit the white ball hard with my cue; the white ball knocks cleanly into the black ball, which shoots off up the table at an angle and rolls neatly into the corner pocket without touching the sides. ‘Now,’ I say, standing up and looking around at the others, ‘who’s up for a game?’
‘I thought you said she couldn’t play?’ Molly moans at Tom as they watch me win my tenth game on the trot.
‘I never said that,’ Tom says, watching me with interest. ‘I said she didn’t want to play.’
‘Who’s next?’ I ask, as the black ball rolls once more into the pocket with a satisfying click.
