If I didn’t know better, he thought to himself, I reckon it’s got somethin’ to do with that new barmaid, Babs.
He shook his head, concerned.
Meanwhile, the Captain sat in the drawing room, replaying the events of last evening over and over again.
Barbara.
First that wink.
What did it mean? Why had she singled him out and winked at him in such a familiar way?
And then, you just let me know if you need anything else. What did she mean by that? He remembered her hot breath on his face and felt his palms sweating.
“I’ll find us somethin’ nice to watch on the TV,” said Sixpence, fiddling with the dials. “Won’t do us any harm to miss a night at the pub.”
The Captain watched the flickering screen but absorbed nothing.
When he retired to bed he struggled to sleep for a second night. Owls hooted in Sixpenny Woods and the moon travelled slowly across the sky. The Captain tossed and turned, but every time he closed his eyes, Barbara’s painted face floated in front of him.
You just let me know if you need anything else, the vision whispered, and in slow motion, one eyelid lowered in a suggestive wink.
The next day saw a clear sky and the air felt warmer than it had for months. The hedgerows were alive with songbirds, and the ducks on the village green were building nests.
After breakfast, Sixpence visited his rose garden. He smiled at the neat rows of rose bushes before examining the new buds for any sign of insect or fungus attack. The bushes, severely pruned for the winter but now bursting with vigorous growth, looked the picture of health.
“Well,” said Sixpence, “with a bit of luck, they’ll win me some more First Place rosettes at the fête in June.”
The Captain, too, was feeling more positive with the new day. He had come to a decision. He would brood no more about the barmaid. He would accompany Sixpence to the pub that evening, just as they always did, and he would ignore her. He must have imagined her interest in him. Why would a woman like that take a special interest in him?
Of course, if she made another move, then he would reconsider.
When Yewbridge Town Council handed over the flat to its latest tenants, the walls had been painted a fresh magnolia. Now the walls were nicotine-stained and the rooms stank of stale cigarettes and smoke. Hardly surprising, as the occupants were rarely without a cigarette between their fingers and the windows were seldom opened.
Husband and wife sat side by side on a sofa covered with a grubby blanket, their feet up on a shared vinyl pouffe. The man was leafing through The Sun newspaper, staring awhile at the topless pin-up girl on page three.
“Don’t know why you’re gawking at her, Rick,” exclaimed the woman, “she must be half your age.”
She went back to examining her own face in a hand-held mirror.
“Well, I can look, can’t I?” he replied, before glancing at the news stories. “Still can’t believe we have a woman for prime minister,” he growled. “Gawd, that Maggie Thatcher should never be allowed to run the country.”
His wife didn’t reply, she’d heard it many times before.
“Would you look at this! A blooming Egyptian has bought Harrods! Mohammed Al Fayed buys Harrods. Whatever next! Probably sell Buckingham Palace to the Americans next.”
“Why should you care?” asked the woman. “You’ve never been into Harrods once in your life.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray between them.
“Hey, who knows,” said Babs. “Maybe we’ll be able to afford to shop in Harrods too, some day, what with my new job going so well. Which reminds me, my roots need seeing to. Gotta look my best now that I’m working.”
The woman who sat on the sofa beside her husband in that dingy Yewbridge flat bore no resemblance to the Dew Drop’s new barmaid. Gone were the stockings and high heels. Instead, Babs’s thick white legs were bare and pushed into grimy slippers that may have been pink once. The short skirt and plunging blouse that had so caught the Captain’s eye hung from a coat-hanger hooked onto the picture rail that ran around the room. Now Babs wore a faded, floral, quilted dressing-gown that gaped between the button holes, revealing patches of dimpled grey flesh. Her face, devoid of make-up, was blotched and her eyes were small and unremarkable.
She drew out a pack of cigarettes from her dressing-gown pocket, selected one and put it between her lips before lighting it and inhaling deeply. She belched comfortably.
“Let’s have a few beers tonight, Rick,” she suggested, “and then get ourselves a takeaway pizza. Might as well enjoy my night off.”
“Can I pour anybody another coffee?” asked Sara Ridsdale, the vicar’s wife, looking round the table.
Everybody politely refused.
The organisers of the annual Sixpenny Cross fête were attending a meeting in the vicarage. The vicar, Thomas Ridsdale, was checking his notes.
“Well, I think we have everything covered. The marquees have been booked. Jayne, you’ll get the flyers printed?”
Jayne Fairweather nodded. “I’ll keep a stack in the Post Office to give out, and I’ll make sure they’re pasted on lamp posts and different spots closer to the time. I’ll also get the certificates printed for the home produce competitions and the flower arrangements. I’ll organise the entries, too, if you like.”
“Jayne, you’re a marvel,” smiled the vicar. “Daisy, are you happy to run the cake stall again?”
“No problem, vicar, I’ll get some volunteers to bake for it, too. And I’m sure Abigail Martin will help out on the day.”
“I’ll bake some cakes,” said Emily Draper, the farmer’s wife.
“And Simon, you and Archie did a wonderful job last year, sorting the trestle tables and the stalls on the day. Are you happy to do that again?”
Simon Grainger and Archie Draper both nodded.
“Stan, raffle?”
The policeman nodded.
And so the meeting progressed as it had done every year for generations.
“Well, I think we have all the basics covered,” said the vicar, closing his notebook. “We have more than two months to prepare, lots of time, hopefully, although we always seem to be in a panic at the end. Put your thinking caps on for next week’s meeting, and we’ll make a list of stalls and who to ask to run them.”
He stood and the meeting broke up amidst a buzz of chatter. Some headed home, others for a quick drink at the Dew Drop.
At the same time, the Captain and Sixpence were also preparing to visit the pub.
9
The Dew Drop Inn was often busy on a Sunday evening, and tonight it was busier than usual. When the Captain and Sixpence arrived, the bar was crowded with people.
“Evening, Captain, evening, Sixpence,” called Angus McDonald. “Sit yourselves down and I’ll be right over.”
“Good evening, Captain, hello, Sixpence, were your ears burning?” asked Jayne Fairweather, smiling, as the two men passed her on their way to the inglenook seats.
“Hello, Jayne, ears burnin’? No, why?” answered Sixpence.
The Captain said nothing. His eyes and ears were searching and listening for any sight or sound of Babs’s presence in the pub. His hands were shaking.
“Well, we were just wondering how your roses are coming along this year and whether you were going to walk away with all the first prizes at the fête again. We had a fête meeting at the vicarage this evening.”
“Ah! That explains why the pub’s so busy tonight,” said Sixpence, grinning. “I have to say, I’m pretty pleased with my rose bushes so far, thank you for askin’, but it’s early days. A lot can go wrong in two months. Next year I’m going to have a go at chrysanthemums, too, so look out!”
“I’ll never enter my roses in the village fête, but I wish they grew better than they do. Have you any tips for me?”
“Bananas,” said Sixpence, lowering his tone. “Chop up banana skins
and spread them round the base. Roses love the potassium, you see. We always save our banana skins for the roses. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
But the Captain had already taken his seat in the inglenook.
“I can see you’re rushed off your feet,” said Sixpence, catching sight of Angus bringing their beers. “I’ll take those off your hands.”
“Thanks, mate. It’s Babs’s night off, and I’m a bit pushed.”
Sixpence joined his companion in the inglenook and set down their drinks.
“Poor old Angus has his work cut out tonight,” he remarked. “It’s the new barmaid’s night off.”
He saw the Captain’s shoulders tense, then relax.
I was right, thought Sixpence. He’s got that wretched woman on the brain.
Unfortunately, Sixpence’s suspicions were correct. The Captain’s simple nature had a tendency to obsess, much like a child’s. The barmaid occupied his mind entirely, leaving little space for anything else.
The next night, when they arrived at the pub, the Captain managed to greet Babs civilly and he tried hard not to watch her as she worked. Although determined to ignore her, his intentions were thrown to the wind by a tiny incident that anyone else might have brushed aside as meaningless.
Early in the evening, while they were engrossed in a game of dominoes, Babs approached unnoticed from behind.
“Well, gentlemen,” she said, standing between them and laying a hand on each of their shoulders, one broad, one bony.
The Captain nearly jumped out of his skin, and the hand on his shoulder felt as hot as a cattle brand.
“Who’s going to buy me a drink, then?” she wheedled. “It’s gone quiet, and I’m spitting feathers.”
“Please pour yourself anything you like, Barbara,” he said, “and put it on my bill.”
“Thank you kindly, Captain,” she replied, laughing loudly and leaving her hand on his shoulder for just a little too long. “I’ll do that and come right back and enjoy it with you. I’m due a break.”
“Well, actually, we’re just...” said Sixpence.
“You are very welcome, my dear,” cut in the Captain, giving Sixpence an icy look.
True to her word, Babs returned and sat with the two men. She hung on every word the Captain uttered and her raucous laugh rang round the pub.
When they walked home that night, the Captain’s heart was beating faster.
He wasn’t mistaken.
Barbara had taken a shine to him.
Beside him, Sixpence said nothing, but he was worried.
That evening set the pattern for future weeks. Every day, the Captain would occupy himself with writing letters, paying bills, or walking round the grounds, but he was whiling away the hours until he could return to the pub and see Babs. Sixpence cooked and carried out his duties as usual, but as he tended his roses in the walled garden, he worried.
Every evening, the Captain and Sixpence would take their seats in the pub and begin to play dominoes. Then the Captain would buy Babs a drink, often more. She’d pour herself a generous gin and tonic then join the two men in the inglenook. Dominoes forgotten, the Captain beamed and went pink whenever she laid her hand on his arm to emphasise a point.
Gradually, Sixpence detached himself. He’d make excuses and linger at the bar, chatting with other customers, and when the two men walked home, it was often in silence.
“I tell you,” said Babs to her husband, “I reckon I’ve got the Captain eating out of my hand. The old goat’s got the hots for me!”
They both laughed uproariously.
“Well,” said Rick, “you ought to put it to some use. We’ve got bills to pay, you know.”
“Yes, I think it’s about time. What do you suggest?”
Rick was quiet for a moment, then an idea struck him.
“Let’s test it. Why don’t you say it’s your birthday? Let’s see if he gives you a nice present...”
“Perfect!” crowed Babs.
To Sixpence’s consternation, the Captain’s obsession with Babs didn’t diminish. On the contrary, Sixpence thought it was intensifying. He watched his companion become almost hypnotised by the barmaid, and he shook his head.
“Well, Captain, you’ll never guess what day it is next Wednesday,” said Babs, tilting her head at him coyly and treating him to a wink.
“No, I’m sorry, Barbara, I have no idea,” said the Captain.
“It’s my birthday!”
“Is it? I’d like to get you a gift, what would you like?”
“Oh no, I’m not that kind of girl!” squealed Babs, and her laughter rang out.
Sixpence rolled his eyes, but neither the Captain or barmaid noticed.
“You don’t have to buy little me a present!” she said, leaning into him and patting his knee.
The Captain’s face flushed red at her touch.
“But I’d like to!”
“Well, Captain, if you must…”
That night, the Captain and Sixpence walked home in silence. The Captain, deep in thought, cleared his throat.
“Sixpence, you remember those ornaments you packed away years ago?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Do you remember where you stored them?”
“Of course. I wrapped them in newspaper and packed them into tea chests. They’re in the cellar.”
“Right! Good, good.”
He said no more, but he didn’t need to. The Captain was entirely devoid of any guile, and Sixpence could read him like an open book.
“Is there something you were looking for in particular?” Sixpence asked.
“Er, not exactly. I just wondered if some of that cut glass, or crystal stuff was to hand…”
“I expect I could find it without too much trouble, sir.”
“Well, if you could, old man. Actually, I was thinking of that blue crystal peacock, do you remember it?”
“I do, sir. You told me it was one of your mother’s favourites. Very valuable, I seem to remember.”
“Ah, yes. That’s the one. Could you locate it for me, please?”
“Of course, sir. May I ask what you were planning to do with it?”
The Captain’s face darkened, taking on an expression that Sixpence had never seen before.
“If you must know, I’m planning to give it to Barbara on her birthday,” he snapped.
Sixpence’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Not because the Captain had admitted his plans for the crystal peacock.
No, Sixpence had already guessed that.
It was the Captain’s tone of voice that astonished him. In all the years they’d been together, the Captain had never spoken to him like that.
10
“What is it?”
“Hang on! Give us a chance. Let me get it out of my bag. It’s worth waiting for, honestly.”
“It’s all wrapped up in newspaper.”
“I know, he apologised, but he said he didn’t have any proper wrapping paper handy.”
She peeled away the old newspaper.
“Look at this!” said Rick, holding up a scrap. “It’s dated 1969 and the headline is about the Kray twins being found guilty of murder.”
“1969? Well, the present he gave me is much older than that. He said it belonged to his mother.”
Babs pulled away the last piece of newspaper and the crystal peacock was revealed. Rick gasped and took it from her, turning it over in his hands.
“Wow, that’s an antique. It’ll be worth a pretty penny.”
“I know! When he gave it to me, I says to him, I says, ‘Ooooh, Captain, that’s so beeeutiful!’ And he says, ‘Oh, I’m very pleased you like it, dear lady.’ So then I gave him a big kiss on the cheek, and the poor feller nearly fainted.” Babs roared with laughter at the memory.
“So what did you say next?”
“So I says, ‘Ooooh, Captain, how did you know I collect these?’ And he says, ‘Do you? Then I’ll bring you some more.’ Honestly, Rick, as long as that sidekic
k of his, Sixpence, doesn’t stick his oar in, I think we’ve found ourselves a golden goose!”
Easter had long passed, and clumps of faded daffodils swayed on the village green. April showers had made the grass lush and vibrant.
The cricket season had started, and weekends saw villagers dressed in white, playing the ancient game on the green. The sound of willow hitting leather, and cries of “Howzat!” followed by spontaneous little bursts of applause rang round the village.
The date of the village fête was approaching, and the committee was finalising arrangements for the weekend in June when the fête would take place on the village green.
Babs had become accepted at the pub, and Angus was delighted that his takings were on the rise. It seemed that the clientele of the Dew Drop Inn liked the brashness of the woman and enjoyed seeing her behind the bar.
However, one man eyed the barmaid suspiciously. Sixpence had watched the collection of crystal ornaments stored in the cellar diminish, one by one. Each time Babs had unwrapped another, she squealed with delight, rewarding her admirer with a kiss on the cheek, rendering him pink with pleasure.
When the crystal had gone, the Captain presented her with other ornaments: buddhas, carved animals, ornate boxes and trinkets, all precious items that his grandfather had brought back from India.
Sixpence’s heart sank lower daily. His employer was no judge of character and Sixpence was quite convinced that no happiness would result from this dalliance. Babs was a coquette, but a clever one. Sixpence had witnessed her winking at other customers and flirting outrageously but only when she was sure that the Captain couldn’t see her.
Something, too, had shifted in his own relationship with the Captain. No longer were they so easy in each other’s company, and something unspoken lurked between them.
I’ve got to try and stop this, make him see sense before he gets in too deep, he thought to himself as he tended his roses. Who is Babs Mason anyway? Where does she come from, and what is her history?
The Sixpenny Cross Collection Page 19