Chapter Four
White Van
That night, a fox tried to get into the tent. I was woken by a demented chorus of barking from the yard and heard something snuffling at the zip. When I fumbled for the torch I saw a sharp snout poking under the canvas. It pulled away from the light, but not in a hurry.
I lay awake till dawn, worrying about things worse than foxes coming to get me. I wanted walls. I didn’t like lying exposed in the cold palm of the night with the bent hills sneering down at me. All the good memories of Dave’s tent had dissolved into mud.
I huddled under my hairy blankets until I heard Arthur shouting at his dogs and the whunk of his Landrover door. Soon the hum of the milking shed would declare morning.
I thought of Charlotte. Was she all right? I needed a mobile. I’d left mine in my bedsit in my hurry to get out. When Hugh went back to collect the rest of my stuff, the place had been turned over; maybe by druggies, maybe not. Hugh’s handsome face had been solemn.
“It’s quite a mess, Lannie,” he said gently. “They’ve smashed things up a bit. You don’t want to go back there.” He’d fetched out everything he could, which wasn’t much. The clothes I’d left behind weren’t really wearable, Hugh said with a grimace, so I assumed they’d been slashed or burnt or pissed on, or all three.
“You’re much better away from it all,” Hugh said. “Make a clean start.”
I knew he was remembering the mess Charlotte and I had rescued him from a few years back, when he was a bright-eyed bushy-tailed young financier. He’d fallen in with a bunch of hotshot brokers who fancied themselves the equal of anyone in the City, and had the cocaine-and-champagne habits to prove it. Always genial and anxious to please, Hugh had found it easy to get into the same habits, but much harder to get out.
But he had got out, with our help. And, apart from having to change jobs, he’d felt no repercussions. No slashed clothes or smashed-up flat. But then he hadn’t done what I had done.
I had no mobile, no money. When would Brendan pay me? What would Brendan pay me? Would Brendan pay me? He hadn’t yet. I needed clothes, something warm, for Christ’s sake.
I struggled up, stiff and sore, and blagged a lift on Rhoda’s school run into Fylington. Rhoda, lemon-mouthed, wasn’t speaking to me. The girls gibbered about someone called Jade who picked her nose and couldn’t spell “was” and had no-one who wanted to sit next to her. I felt for Jade. When Rhoda dropped me off, the girls blew raspberries at me, and Rhoda said nothing.
I felt conspicuous and alien in the tight stone streets. I was used to being made invisible by numbers. Here, my lonely footsteps were too loud and all the windows stared at me.
I bought a local paper, hunting for a bedsit – a room – anything. But bedsits didn’t exist in Fylington. There were a few studio flats in Macclesfield, too far away without a car, and too expensive.
When the library opened I went to search online. Still nothing. I sloped out again to buy biscuits and bananas as a change from leftovers. Spotting an Oxfam shop, I bought a man’s fleece, a crackly, stiff black waterproof and a huge umbrella advertising lager. I really needed wellies, my suede boots being already ruined, but could find nowhere that sold them. Not even green ones. Nor an airbed, which I needed even more.
I put all my purchases on, or up, and waited for the bus back to Brocklow. Brendan had assured me it came hourly. After standing twenty minutes in the drizzle I was about to start walking when a grimy white Transit came thundering up the road towards me.
As it squealed to a halt at the bus stop I was already panicking. It was the screeching tyres that did it; they’d been such a familiar sound back home, usually followed by a crunch or a police siren. I was so twitchy and short of sleep that I had the giant umbrella all ready to spear someone, when the Transit’s rainy window jerked down in starts and Frank’s rumpled face and untidy hair poked out.
Of course, I realised stupidly, if they came for me, it wouldn’t be here. This wasn’t the Manchester tram stop. There was no chance of bumping into them in the cosy streets of Fylington.
I rearranged my face into a smile, because Frank was saying something. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to show an intricate tattoo. A can of Vimto teetered on the dashboard on top of a tabloid paper.
“Need a lift? I’m going past the Woolpack.”
“That would be great.” I climbed into the cab and peered into the back, looking for his job. I guessed plumber, but a stained-glass door lay on a sheet of bubble-wrap.
“Nice door,” I said.
“Edwardian. Taking it down to Leek.” Frank clashed gears and the van juddered away. His blunt features were intense in concentration as he tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the van in chauffeur mode over the winding bumpy lane.
“You sell doors?”
“I sell anything. Got a reclamation yard over by the canal, behind the railway line.” He pointed vaguely left, while the van veered and choked.
“Is business good?”
“So-so. Everybody’s short of money. I could do with another TV series on doing up old houses vintage-style. That always brings ’em in.”
“Fashion,” I said. “It’s the same in cheffery.” The cab was clean. On the floor was a tiny clutter of one plastic cup, one pen, one receipt.
Frank said, “Has Brendan asked you about the club?”
“What club?”
“The rugby club.” Frank gestured at the chopstick posts swinging past the window. “He hasn’t asked you then.”
“Asked me what?”
“Don’t worry, I expect he will.”
“What will he ask me?”
“About doing the teas on a Saturday. Rhoda and Mrs Bob used to do them, but Mrs Bob’s had enough and Rhoda – well, she’d still do it if she could. Got enough on her plate, though.”
“What does it involve?”
“Pie and peas, mostly.”
“But what about the Woolpack?” I asked.
“No food till eight on Saturdays. Long-standing arrangement,” said Frank. “Till Brendan stops playing. A year or two yet. He’s a prop, he only has to lumber round a bit. Loosehead.”
“Loosehead,” I repeated with pleasure, imagining Brendan’s blond curly head lolling from side to side on his trundling barrel of a body. “Do you play?”
Frank shook his head. “Not any more. Can’t afford the time off.”
“Just pie and peas?”
“Chilli now and then.”
“A boyfriend took me to see Wigan once.” I remembered the stunningly raucous passion of the crowd, but nothing at all about the game.
“League,” said Frank without reproach.
“Hugh plays,” I said, light dawning. “That’s how he knows Brendan.”
“That’s right. Winger. He doubles as full-back, but he’s better on the wing. Known as Road-Runner: he’s bloody fast.”
A thought struck me. “The rugby club doesn’t have accommodation, does it?”
“You still camping? There’s a flat over the clubhouse annexe, but KK’s living there. Bit of nepotism. Niall and Martin built it. His brothers,” Frank explained. “Martin’s the builder. Niall’s the roofer.” He talked in bursts, with pauses for checking the road in between, never looking at me.
I didn’t care who’d built the flat, if it wasn’t available. My bruised hips were aching.
“You could use the portakabin in my yard,” said Frank, making my hopes rise, “only Jake’s in it.” They sank again. “Stand-off from South Africa.”
“Is that rugby again?”
“Fly-half. Niall brought him over. We had to give him a job and a place to live, though I don’t think he was expecting a portakabin. Niall made promises. You’ll meet Niall. He’s the chairman. He’ll want to talk to you about the teas. And everything else.”
“What’s in it for me?” I asked.
Frank thought about this. “Fun,” he said doubtfully.
“I’ll see. What’s up with Rhoda?”
Frank thought for even longer about this one. “Couldn’t tell you,” he decided finally. More discretion than I’d have expected from White Van Man.
“She’s not keen on me doing anything new,” I said.
“Early days,” said Frank. “What were you thinking of doing?”
“Better puddings. More seasonal stuff. Less salmon.”
“Duck with crisped roots, broad beans and orange confiture,” recited Frank. “Had that at the King’s Head when the girlfriend dragged me down there.” I thought he was a bit old for a girlfriend. Thirty-fiveish? He should have a missus.
“What was it like?”
“All right. A bit marmaladey.”
“Which King’s Head?”
“Fylington. And you want to try the Pheasant, the Blue Bull, and the Coleridge.”
“I don’t know any of them.”
“I’ll take you,” said Frank confidently, veering around a parked truck. I was thrown against him, and taken aback.
“Just seeing the menus would do. Do you like strawberry cheesecake?”
“Not in the Woolpack,” said Frank.
“Good. What should I make instead? Apart from sticky toffee pudding. What would go down well with the punters round here?”
“Anything chocolate. Can’t go wrong with chocolate.”
“Do they do puddings at the rugby club?”
Frank gave me a look. “Mars Bars,” he said.
Mud Pie Page 4
