by Heide Goody
Jacob gasped and picked it up to inspect.
“Perhaps,” said Strawb lightly, “it’s one of the ones that went missing.”
“Chesney’s office you say?” said Jacob.
“Maybe,” said Strawb, and Margaret could hear him hamming it up, “Chesney knows where the other three have gone?” His hand even went to his pocket where the other pieces were hidden.
Jacob’s face was a combination of fury and wonder. “But why…?”
“Who can say?” said Strawb.
Jacob thrust himself up and stalked out of the lounge purposefully.
Margaret shook her head. “Why do you do this, Strawb?”
Strawb grinned. “Why do we do any of it? It entertains us.”
35
Being unable to clock out from work due to the unfinished community payback task was surprisingly freeing. It was true Sam had received several automated messages telling her that her overtime was unauthorised and wouldn’t be paid, but that aside, the fact she could never officially be ‘out’ of the office meant wherever she was, she was deemed to be ‘in’. She took advantage of that by choosing to work at home for the day. She assumed Doug Junior could hold down the fort for at least one day.
Her tasks for the day were manifold. She had a venue, equipment and some pretend zoo staff to source for the Doggerland animal escape drill. The conversations she’d had with Guy at the Seal Land sanctuary up in Anderby Creek had been illuminating, but her subtle hints that maybe Seal Land could be used as the venue were met with a cold hard refusal. Guy had pointed out they had no intention of closing Seal Land for the day, and that several people chasing pretend mammoths or whatever would be too distressing for the real animals, and too bloody hilarious for the Seal Land staff to cope with.
Sourcing equipment was also difficult. Despite having an actual budget with which to buy nets and prods and such, spending that budget was proving a little tricky. She had in front of her a DefCon4 requisition form. She’d filled in what she wanted – that was easy enough – but it was the other questions on the form that threw her. Answering the question How does this request meet the company’s mission statement? had taken her four hours of head scratching and re-reading of the company’s website. The following question, How does this request meet the company’s vision statement? utterly flummoxed her, mostly because the website listed a single incomprehensibly worded thing called a ‘mission vision’ and Sam couldn’t work out if both questions referred to the same thing or not. In the end, she answered the question with a simple As above and moved on.
The current barrier was a supplementary question which read.
* * *
Are the requested items for:
Operational purposes?
Procedural purposes?
Routine use?
* * *
Circle one
* * *
This was a riddle worthy of the Sphinx. Sam instinctively felt whatever answer she put would be wrong; that a clever answer was required.
She stared at it for a long while and tried to put her mind in a zen monk riddle-solving frame of mind. Ten minutes later, with no answer forthcoming, she picked up the phone and dialled regional head office. She did this on a daily basis, but could not necessarily say why, as it was generally nothing more than a form of self-torture. She clicked her way through various options and, once the hold music had started, put the phone to one side.
Marvin came into the kitchen with a large storage box and placed it on the counter.
“Where’d that come from?” she asked.
He looked at the faded sticker on the side of the box. “Woolworths.”
“I meant…” Since her return to Skegness and the subsequent uncovering of her dad’s financial concerns, Sam had been subtly (and not so subtly) streamlining his possessions in readiness for the day when financial collapse came and the pair of them were forced to move out to much smaller accommodation. A career’s-worth of magical gizmos and paraphernalia had been sorted – some sold on, some binned, and the absolute essentials re-boxed and safely stored. And yet her dad was always finding a fresh box of tricks and trinkets from somewhere.
“Continuing the great sort out?” she said.
“It’s good to look through these things,” he said, holding up a heavily-braided fez. “I can tell you a story about every one of them, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Sam. She didn’t add she had most likely heard them all before.
“Contrary to popular belief, Tommy Cooper was not the first mainstream entertainer to wear a fez. This one here was owned by one of Belgium’s most popular magicians, Maurice Hochermaus. He and Tommy Cooper exchanged headgear at many an event, but Maurice insisted that the plainer style was more flattering for his face.”
“Dad, I—”
“Anyway, Tommy took this fez of Maurice’s down to a haberdashers in the East End and paid them to make it as ornate as they possibly could. They went to town and applied everything they could. Of course Maurice saw it and hit the roof, but he wore it anyway. It was a private joke between them, and secretly I think Maurice adored it. I was so flattered when he left it to me and not Tommy. A proper piece of showbiz history, this.”
Sam smiled at her dad. “Put it on then!”
He popped it on his head and grinned at her. “Bright, isn’t it? Of course it all helps with the lighting on stage. Linda and I always used to joke about putting sequins on our sequins for best effect.”
It was an eye-watering piece. Someone had carefully selected braids of contrasting colours and applied them in a striped zig-zag around the crown. Sam looked around and realised her dad wasn’t just playing with his old outfits, he’d fetched numerous boxes of props into the kitchen as well.
“Wow, you’re having a proper trip down memory lane,” she said, indicating all of the things. “Either that or you’re planning a show.”
Maurice gave her a small grin and turned to put the hat down.
“What? No! Are you doing a show? Really?”
“Mr Marvellous might tread the boards again. I have been approached to perform a small intimate set in the local area. Just to get my hand back in.”
“Where?”
“A friend of a friend has asked me to do a Christmas turn at this retirement village place off Roman Bank. Otterside.”
“I know it well.”
“Apparently the residents are big on nostalgia, and they’re just the right age to remember my glory days.”
“That sounds really great, dad.”
“Why thank you, patronising daughter.”
“You are medically cleared to perform?”
Marvin whipped a printed letter from behind the box. “Blood pressure mildly elevated. Too much salt in the diet probably. Blood sugars are at prediabetic levels.”
“Prediabetic is still not good, right?”
“Prediabetic,” he insisted. “But I have the heart and lungs of a young man, apparently.”
“Doesn’t he want them back?”
“Ha ha. You should take that humour on stage.”
“I’m genuinely pleased for you, dad. So, this gig. Are they paying you?”
“Of course they are. I’m a professional. Gone are the days when I’d send them over to Botherwicks, so those old sharks could negotiate a better deal for me.”
“Botherwicks! I couldn’t remember the name of your agents. Are they still going?” Sam asked. “I need to hire some actors to perform a fake animal drill.”
Marvin nodded. “How many and how long for?” he asked.
Sam had pondered this. “I need a crowd and a few key players. Somewhere between thirty and fifty I’d say. Just for the day.”
“In which case I suggest you give Botherwicks a wide berth. Tony died, of course, and ever since the youngster’s been in charge they’ve become horribly corporate.”
Sam knew that ‘the youngster’ was at least in his sixties. She also knew Marvin did not approve of his
business practices, which had something to do with him refusing to sign off on first class travel for Marvin’s engagements in the mid-eighties, once his popularity started to wane.
“What would you do?” she asked.
“I’d approach the local am-dram group. Bung them a donation and you’d probably get as many of them as you need.”
“Ah, good idea,” said Sam. “Cat in the café is a member. All I need now is a venue. Somewhere with grounds and buildings, where we can close off access to the public for a few hours.” The germ of an idea lodged in Sam’s mind. “When’s your performance at Otterside?” she asked.
“Next weekend.”
Sam pulled a face and thought. “Broad open spaces…. We could get everyone to stay inside… Or spectate, it doesn’t matter. I’ll have a word with Chesney.”
“And could you possibly explain to me what an animal drill is?” said Marvin.
“I like to do six impossible things before breakfast,” she said, “but explaining this nonsense would be one too many.”
Her phone was still on hold with DefCon4. There was also a text from Delia.
“Delia has costumes for me,” she said, pleasantly surprised.
Sam looked at the requisition form and pondered the value of staying on the line to speak to someone who would surely only confuse and disappoint her. Her pen hovered over the question on the page.
“Circle one,” she mused and then drew a circle around the word One. It was an elegant solution, although it was almost certainly wrong.
36
Hilde could see her farfar was up to something.
Ragnar Odinson had many skills, and was a gifted liar when it came to police, council representatives and other Saxons, but he was useless at lying to Hilde. For the past couple of days, he had been drifting from caravan to hut to caravan, chatting to the menfolk, and always averting his gaze when he saw Hilde looking his way.
Whatever he was up to, Hilde realised it was taking shape when she saw Hermod and Gunnolf backing their ridiculous truck out of its garage shed. The modified Ford Super Duty pick-up truck had to remain off-road most of the time, not because it was stolen, but because the US import’s four metre wide wheelbase, custom monster tires and bespoke extras made it unsuitable for the narrower Lincolnshire roads and utterly uninsurable. The distinctive cherry red paintwork and custom painted flame motifs only added to its brash excess. Common sense suggested they would do better to find something more subtle to ride around in, but Ragnar’s twin nephews were very attached to the truck. They used its open flat back as a large, luxurious bed for much of the time. On the occasional hot day they would put the tailgate up, line it with plastic and host a pool party in it.
“Where are you going with that?” Hilde said, strolling across the muddy compound.
“Lads are just taking it out for ride,” said Ragnar unconvincingly. “Might go sea fishing.”
Hilde looked at the other burly men climbing into the back of the truck. “Need a bit of muscle, do ya?” she said. “Big fish?”
“Aye.”
“And the chainsaws?” She nodded at the gear being loaded into the back.
Ragnar growled in his throat. “May Thor strike down nosey womenfolk with lightning!”
“I’m wearing rubber boots,” she said, rocking on her heels.
“Does tha want some wood to build tha ship or not?” he said hotly.
“My ship is it now?” She frowned. “Is tha going to steal some oak?”
“Do I look like I intend to buy it?”
“And where are you going to find an oak tree round here?”
Ragnar tapped the side of his large nose with a grubby finger. “Oh, tha farfar’s a clever one.”
“Oh, I’d like to see what you think is clever.” She went to the truck and stepped onto the tailgate runner to climb in the back.
“Tha’s not coming wi’ us!” shouted Ragnar.
“Tha’s not gonna stop me,” she shouted back. “Shift up, Torsten.”
She pushed herself in between her cousin Torsten and her uncle Ogendus. Torsten had a bandage wrapped around his upper arm.
“Another tattoo?” she said.
“It’s infected,” he mumbled.
Ogendus snorted. “I reckon me lad’s got a girl’s name there and she’s already dumped him.”
Ragnar stood in the mud. “Tha’s not coming wi’ us,” he repeated firmly.
Hilde just waited. They’d played this game before and Ragnar always caved in when it came to Hilde.
* * *
Polly watched the turkey in the garden visible from her window.
It picked its way, footstep over footstep, along its muddy pen. A layer of frost covered the untidy lawn and the ride-on toys that had not moved in weeks. Even from this distance, Polly could see puffs of frosty air at the turkey’s mouth.
“December’s a dangerous time to be a turkey,” she said softly. “Best be careful.”
She hoped the family didn’t plan to kill it. Distant and ugly though it might have been, there was something cheering about having a constant companion visible from her window.
She dressed warmly for the coach trip.
Candlebroke Hall was only a short drive away from Skegness, but the social committee were laying on a coach. A festive craft fair was promised – no, a craft fayre with a ‘y’ which clearly made it all the more crafty – and there was talk of carols and mince pies, too. She had decided she would wear warm practical clothes so that she could take a walk around the grounds if she felt like it. If she was going to be trapped inside with all of the forced Christmas jollity, then she might need an escape hatch. She had no need for Christmas craft gifts. The only people she truly wanted to buy presents for were little Jack and Iris, and craft fayres were not going to fulfil that need. Yes, she might also want to buy a little something for new friends like Strawb or Alison or neighbour Bernard, but it would be uninspired to buy them a gift from a fayre they were all attending.
No, Polly decided she would be more than happy to go along for the ride – it had been some years since she had been there – but they could keep the Christmassy things for themselves.
She descended to the foyer and found a mixed group of residents waiting for the coach. There was a small core who were clearly planning a day of festive fun. All of them wore reindeer antlers on their heads. Earrings with baubles and appalling Christmas jumpers were a recurring theme. They each carried a huge bag with them. Polly suspected the one Strawb was carrying contained a wireless speaker, because Wizzard echoed around the room, wishing it could be Christmas every day.
“Are we all here?” said Margaret, stretching her swan neck to see over the group.
“I have a checklist,” said Jacob. He led the way outside, where he proceeded to act as doorman, bouncer and security guard at the coach door.
Polly followed Margaret on board.
“I’ll do the safety announcements and then we’ll get off,” the sandy-haired driver said.
“You will do the driving and nothing more, James Huntley,” said Margaret bluntly.
The driver was immediately cowed.
“I shall be doing any announcements,” said Margaret. She took the microphone from the front dash and trailed it over the driver’s shoulder to the seat immediately behind, where she positioned herself.
The festive fun lovers took the front seats, so Polly moved towards the back to preserve her hearing.
Jacob took two head counts once they were all aboard, although Margaret instructed the driver to set off before he had finished the first. There were whoops and cheers from the front as they pulled out of the gravel drive and onto Roman Bank.
* * *
The Odinsons’ Super Duty truck stopped off at the family’s mobility shop over by Chapel St Leonards to pick up Hilde’s dad, Sigurd, and a trailer. Sigurd had unlocked the gate leading to the back of the shop, and uncles Yngve and Ogendus had wheeled out the long low trailer and hooked it up to the tr
uck under Hermod and Gunnolf’s close supervision. As they did, Ragnar took out a folded newspaper from his back pocket, thrust it into Hilde’s hand and tapped a story.
“Lincolnshire Estates Donate Wood For Notre Dame Repairs,” she read.
“That there cathedral in Paris burned down, didn’t it?”
“I’m aware of that, aye,” said Hilde.
“And they need oak to repair the roof. A hundred grand’s worth of oak.”
“Yes?”
He tapped the story again. “And the daft apeths have listed which stately homes are donating oak trees.”
She read to the bottom. “This is a shopping list for anyone who wants to steal oak.”
“I know,” he said, laughing. “Bloody Saxons have told us where to find it. Candlebroke Hall’s nearest.”
“And we’re just going to roll up and steal it?” said Hilde. “Someone will stop us.”
Ragnar slapped a helmet with clear face shield on his face. “Why? We’re just tree surgeons going to make much needed repairs.”
* * *
The Otterside lords and ladies of revelry worked their way down the coach’s aisle of seats.
“All right, love?”
Polly nodded at the woman. She recognised her from the FitMeUp tracker training. “Janine.”
The woman grinned. “Polly. Something for the journey?” She raised a thermos flask.
“Tea?”
“On a day like today, we should start with a Bucks Fizz, don’t you think?”
Janine handed her a plastic glass and poured a frothy orange cocktail from the thermos.
“Thank you,” said Polly.
“You’re one of us now,” said Janine and moved on.
Polly sipped her drink and felt a surge of warmth for the oddly social group of people who had done this. It was very thoughtful.