‘I shouldn’t be too much longer,’ she whispers. ‘Assuming Mrs Palfreyman and Mrs Bingle can ever agree on the appropriate spread of jam in a Victoria sponge cake.’
Joan grins. ‘Hang in there, old girl. I’ve seen just the thing for a little fun.’
‘Mrs Oberon,’ calls Mrs Palfreyman, pointedly.
‘Sorry,’ says Lillian, rolling her eyes discreetly at Joan. ‘Coming.’
Lillian traipses back to her post and finishes off the judging by awarding the last ribbon to a wonderful treacle flapjack. Then, at last, she is back at Joan’s side and making for the bright square at the far end of the tent. They pass trestle tables loaded with groupings of green beans, carrots and potatoes. Joan points out a large, inappropriately shaped marrow with a snort and Lillian has to hide her smile as she swats her with the show programme. ‘You are incorrigible.’
‘Come with me,’ says Joan, ignoring her. ‘I’ve had the most splendid idea.’
Outside, they weave their way through the crowd, past a group of enthusiastic Morris dancers clashing sticks and waving hankies with impressive effort for such a hot day. ‘Keep it up, boys,’ yells Joan, storming by. The heady scent of spun sugar, sawdust, warm trampled grass and anticipation hangs in the air. ‘Where are we going?’ asks Lillian, but Joan doesn’t answer, marching on until they are standing in front of a small, jewel-coloured caravan sheltering in the shade of a tree at the edge of the green.
‘Palm reading,’ she says, turning to Lillian with a wicked glint in her eye. ‘I thought it would be a bit of a hoot.’
Before Lillian can protest, Joan has already disappeared through the beaded curtain covering the entrance to the caravan, the emerald-coloured glass clinking behind her. There is nothing for it but to follow.
The caravan interior is small and cramped and a heavy scent, something like cedarwood and cinnamon, hangs in the air. A young, curly-haired woman with green eyes and an armful of silver bangles sits behind a card table. ‘It’s two shillings a reading,’ she says. Joan slips eagerly into the empty seat opposite the fortune-teller, placing her money on the table. ‘For both of us,’ she says pointedly, ‘so you can’t chicken out,’ she adds, turning back to Lillian.
The young woman slides the coins into her dress, then takes Joan’s palm in her own hand and studies it silently.
‘You have a long life line,’ the woman says. ‘Strongly governed by your heart. Lucky in love and money.’
Joan smiles. ‘What every girl wants to hear.’
‘There are two men in your life.’
Joan nods. ‘That’ll be Gerald and Georgie.’
‘And I see a girl, too . . . with blue eyes, like her mother.’
Joan smiles. ‘I’d like another child.’
Lillian looks around the interior of the caravan, noting the colourful fabric draped from the ceiling to create a tent-like atmosphere, the small bed in the corner, the smoking incense burning over the hearth. She wishes she were outside, sitting under a tree.
‘There will be a choice to make soon,’ the fortune-teller continues. ‘I see travel in your future. Perhaps with your husband’s job?’
Joan nods eagerly. ‘Yes, yes, we’ve talked about it.’
‘Your heart line is very deep. It dominates. Your marriage is strong but you need to learn to control your temper. It’s a good hand. You’ll live a long and fruitful life.’
Joan beams up at Lillian and she smiles back, thinking what a waste of money it all is.
‘Your turn,’ says Joan, vacating the chair for Lillian.
Lillian settles at the table and holds out her hand. The young woman takes it in her own, her touch surprisingly soft. She stares intently down at Lillian’s palm, then frowns and clears her throat. ‘You have experienced great sadness. You’ve lost something very precious. You feel it, deeply.’
Lillian swallows hard but doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to sway the woman’s reading with her own reactions. It’s all a load of rubbish, she knows; a clever mix of body language and mumbo-jumbo.
‘Someone has come into your life,’ she continues. ‘Someone important. They have something to teach you. You must listen to them, but ultimately you must find your own way.’
Lillian can’t help but think of Jack. Does he have something to teach her?
‘You are strong.’ The woman looks up at Lillian, her almond eyes staring into Lillian’s, a soft smile on her face. ‘Stronger than you know. This is good. You will need to be strong for what is coming.’
Lillian blinks and then averts her gaze slightly to the left of the woman, settling on the small painting of a white horse hanging on the wall behind. ‘There is a branch here,’ the woman adds, stroking a line on her palm, sending a tingling sensation through Lillian’s arm. ‘It indicates change. A moment, or perhaps an event. But I can see something else. It’s a warning. You need to take care.’
The woman’s bangles jangle on her arm as she grips Lillian’s hand a little tighter. Lillian feels strange, a little giddy, her head swimming with the close atmosphere and cloying scent of the incense as the fortune-teller leans in and lowers her voice. ‘I see danger.’
Lillian shudders, but she lifts her gaze to meet the fortune-teller’s clear green eyes. The young woman leans in closer still, her voice no more than a whisper. ‘Be very careful. Someone is watching.’
Lillian snatches her hand away, as if scalded. ‘Sorry. I . . . I think I need some fresh air.’ She pushes her way out of the airless caravan, through the clinking beaded curtain and bursts, blinking, back out into the bright daylight. Joan joins her a moment later. ‘What a fraud,’ she snorts. ‘She can’t have been more than sixteen years old.’
Lillian nods and tries to smile. ‘I knew it would be a waste of money.’
‘What was she whispering about at the end there?’
‘Nothing. Silly nonsense. I think she was trying to scare me.’
‘It’s all a lot of rot. What would a girl like her know about life and love?’
Lillian tries to smile but the muscles in her face are fixed rigid.
‘Come on,’ says Joan, threading her arm through Lillian’s, ‘let’s get a cup of tea and calm our nerves with the soothing racket of the brass band.’
The tea tent is crowded with people taking respite from the afternoon sun. Joan guides Lillian through the crowd. The air is hot and close, the scent of well-trodden grass trapped under the canvas. Lillian stands in the queue and watches children weaving in and out of the tables and chairs. Standing there in the brightness of the tent, surrounded by the crowds, it’s easier to push the fortune-teller’s words from her mind. Just a load of mumbo-jumbo. I see danger. How ridiculous.
‘So where’s that scrumptious husband of yours today?’ Joan asks.
‘He’s still in London.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have had you over for a game of tennis or dinner. You must be going out of your mind with boredom. Although,’ she adds, ‘perhaps you haven’t been so lonely after all?’
Lillian follows her friend’s gaze and sees Jack, for the first time that day, standing near the tea urns, looking handsome in a pale-blue shirt, caught up in conversation with a couple of elderly ladies from the village. Her stomach lurches at the sight of him, but she bats Joan on the arm with her flower-show programme, feigning shock. ‘Really! I’m a married woman.’
‘Oh I know. It must be simply awful having to look at that face all day,’ she adds with a lascivious twinkle in her eye.
‘I never see him,’ she protests, a little too quickly. ‘He’s always locked away in the room, working on his murals.’
‘Well, I’d say that was a missed opportunity, wouldn’t you?’ says Joan. ‘Maybe I’ll invite him over for dinner,’ she continues, seemingly unaware of Lillian’s furious blushes. ‘A few martinis and a game of rummy with some of the local ladies and I’m sure we’ll knock that conscientious streak out of him. Look at them all fawning around him, like bees glued to the h
oneypot.’
Lillian sees that Jack and his companions have been joined by three younger women from the village, all glossy hair and swishing skirts, laughing and teasing.
‘He’s quite the introvert,’ she says softly. ‘I don’t think he much likes these social gatherings.’
‘I’m not sure you know Mr Fincher as well as you think,’ retorts Joan and, as if to prove her point, peals of laughter erupt from the group surrounding Jack.
At last Joan and Lillian reach the front of the queue. They order their teas then head to wait near the urn, closer to where Jack stands. Susan Cartwright’s shrill voice carries towards them. ‘Oh go on, be a sport. It’s for a jolly good cause.’
Lillian watches Jack throw his arms up in defeat.
‘Yes,’ murmurs Joan, her gaze scanning Jack from top to toe. ‘Quite a dish.’
They sit themselves at the far end of a trestle table and after a moment, as she’d hoped he would, Jack appears beside them. ‘May I join you?’
‘Be our guest,’ says Joan.
Jack pulls out the chair next to Lillian and as he sits, she feels his foot settle beside her own, a light but insistent pressure brushing against her heel. Joan teases him briefly on his newfound status as village heartthrob and engages him in a conversation about his art, but as soon as her attention is diverted by the arrival of others from the village, Jack slides his own hand beneath the table and strokes the soft part of Lillian’s wrist where it rises out of her glove. ‘You look beautiful,’ he murmurs.
She jumps at his touch, the words of the fortune-teller echoing in her mind. Someone is watching. ‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘Not here.’
He has an intense way of looking at her, the undercurrent of a smile hidden in his dark grey eyes, the slightly predatory way his gaze sweeps over her that brings a flush to her skin as she remembers the intimate things he did to her the night before; her hands gripping the bedhead, the way she had bitten down on the back of her hand to prevent herself from crying out. It’s agony not to be able to touch him. To hell with virtue and propriety; all she wants to do is seize his hand and drag him away from prying eyes and idle gossip and those pretty girls, back to Cloudesley, back to the privacy of her bedroom.
‘I’ve been bullied into sitting for the sponge throw,’ he says at a normal volume. Then, lowering his voice so that only she can hear, he adds, ‘Perhaps we could escape afterwards? The whole village is here. Who will miss us?’
Before she can answer, Susan Cartwright is standing over them again, tugging at Jack’s shirtsleeve. ‘Come on, Jack. You’re up next.’ She turns to Lillian, smiling sweetly. ‘You don’t mind if I steal him away, do you?’
Lillian returns her smile. ‘Be my guest.’
Lillian would be happy to stay where she is, but Joan is already up and out of her seat. ‘Now this I have to see,’ she says. ‘Come on.’
They stand squinting in the sunshine as Jack is locked into the old village stocks and a gaggle of giggling girls take it in turns to hurl wet sponges at him. It is Susan who has the best aim, her last sponge hitting him square on the forehead. He emerges slick and wet, his damp linen shirt clinging to his body. Susan rushes across and poses for the photographer from the local newspaper, her lips pressed to Jack’s cheek. Joan lets out a wolf whistle but Lillian turns away, a horrible blaze of desire and jealousy flaring inside her.
‘Lillian, Lillian, come with me.’ Albie is at her side, tugging her hand. ‘I won! Come and see.’
It takes Lillian a moment to realise what Albie is talking about. ‘You won? How wonderful.’ Casting a last glance back at Jack, she takes the boy’s hand in her own. ‘Show me.’
They enter the craft tent and Albie leads her proudly to the makeshift gallery where the children’s paintings have been tacked to display boards.
‘Oh my,’ she says, seeing the colourful watercolour marked with a red ribbon. ‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’
‘It’s you,’ says Albie, turning to her with a delighted smile. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Yes,’ says Lillian. ‘I do. I really do. It’s lovely.’
Albie has captured her with beautiful, childish innocence: a round pink face, her blonde hair a yellow sweep on her head, eyes the colour of a clear lake, spidery black eyelashes and a pearl choker around her throat.
‘This calls for a celebration,’ says Lillian.
They leave the exhibition tent and make for the long queue waiting for ices. The line snakes beside a red-and-gold striped puppet booth with a show in full swing, rows of children sitting on the grass and a large crowd of parents standing behind. The audience is laughing uproariously as the grotesque form of Mr Punch, with his hook nose and curved chin, turns to the crowd and crows ‘that’s the way to do it’ in a high falsetto. Judy pops up from below, holding a puppet baby. She asks Mr Punch to babysit the infant and the audience falls about laughing as Judy disappears and Punch proceeds to sit on the baby. Moments later Judy is back and the two puppets begin to fight, Punch hitting Judy repeatedly with a large wooden stick.
Lillian feels her stomach twist. She looks down and finds Albie watching the performance, his eyes wide and his face as white as a sheet, his hand gripping her own more tightly as the puppets tussle and fight.
‘Lilli,’ he asks, looking up to her, ‘why are they all laughing?’
She stares down at the boy. ‘I don’t know, Albie. I really don’t know.’
Chapter 18
The white tents billow on the village green like sailing ships straining to be free of their moorings. Maggie feels surprisingly good in the yellow dress Lillian has loaned her, but she is glad she has tempered the look with her Converse sneakers and thought to fix the straw hat firmly to her hair with a few extra pins. The warm wind tugs at it playfully like a young boy attempting to pull it from her head and toss it away. The air carries with it the sweet scent of spun sugar and trampled grass as well as the rising squeals of children being entertained by an old-fashioned puppet show. ‘That’s the way to do it!’ screams a hook-nosed puppet. Lillian tuts. ‘Dreadful show,’ she mutters under her breath as they pass by. ‘Can’t believe they wheel it out, year after year.’
Maggie pushes her grandmother in the rickety wheelchair around the fete stalls, where they peruse the tables of plants and cushions, candles and cakes. They’ve already taken a turn around the exhibition tent, admiring the displays of local produce, the prize-winning entries of flowers, fruits and vegetables, both pleased to see that Jane has taken the red ribbon for her green tomato chutney. They stop briefly at the raffle where Maggie wins a pink plastic heart-shaped picture frame, then they watch as a heavily tattooed man takes another turn at the ring toss. As she turns, she spots Will standing a short distance away, chatting to an older couple beside the hoopla stall. Away from Cloudesley, he looks different, somehow. Less familiar – taller and tanned – and very handsome. He says something to the couple that makes them laugh, and as he glances round he spots her watching him across the crowds. Maggie waves and Will holds her gaze for a moment, then nods and turns back to his companions. Maggie blushes, unsure why she should suddenly feel so hot and unsettled. It is a very warm day. She should get Lillian into the shade.
Nearby, the vicar is shouting over the PA system, trying to drum up entries for the egg and spoon race, his voice having to compete with the raucous dance music blaring from a nearby fairground ride. Beside him, an inflatable bouncy castle bends and lurches under the pressure of the children leaping on it.
Maggie is looking around for the tea tent when the vicar’s voice bellows out over the PA again. ‘Roll up, roll up. Over at the stocks it’s just one pound for three sponges. Now’s your chance to hit Gregory where it hurts.’
She sees Gregory Wells, the florid-faced publican at the Old Swan being locked into the stocks for the sponge-throwing competition. He is hamming it up for the growing audience in fantastic, pantomime fashion.
‘I’m sure there are many of you out there who’d like
to hurl things at this man and I know I don’t need to remind you that it’s all for a good cause. All proceeds go to helping us fix the church roof.’
Maggie isn’t planning on going anywhere near the stocks and is pushing Lillian resolutely past with her head down when she hears Gregory call loudly, ‘Well, well . . . if it isn’t Maggie Oberon. Surely we can tempt you to step up and have a go? You always used to like a lock-in.’
Maggie stops dead in her tracks, her hands clenching the grips on her grandmother’s chair, aware of the curious glances of the crowd. She glowers at Gregory, willing him to shut up.
‘Oh, if looks could kill.’ He chuckles. ‘I see you’re here with your grandmother, the lovely Lillian Oberon. How are you, deary? Feeling better?’ he calls loudly and slowly, as if to a very senile person.
Maggie looks down at Lillian in desperation.
‘Come on, ladies,’ goads Gregory. ‘Don’t be shy. It’s for a good cause.’
Her grandmother gives her an imperceptible nod, reaches into her handbag and pulls out a five-pound note. ‘I’ll pay. You throw.’
Maggie hesitates, already feeling far too conspicuous for her liking.
‘You heard the vicar,’ says Lillian. ‘Hit him where it hurts.’
Maggie sighs. ‘I’ll try.’
Gregory is still grinning and goading her as she takes up the first sponge from the bucket of water and hurls the dripping mass at the wooden frame. It hits Gregory on the corner of his chin, sending water spraying across his face and generating a low rumble of appreciation from the crowd. Her second sponge hits his left temple while the third brings a rousing cheer as she scores a direct hit to the bridge of his nose. Gregory rolls his eyes in a mock swoon, making the crowd laugh even louder. As she turns back to Lillian her grandmother gives her a satisfied nod. ‘Now, how about a cup of tea?’
Mrs Lovell has clearly had her way with the fifties-style theme for the event, but Maggie has to admit that the tea tent looks lovely, decked out in pastel bunting, floral tablecloths and her own flower arrangements sitting on the tables. In the far corner a string quartet plays a sedate waltz. The tent is awash with blue-rinses and walking sticks. Maggie parks Lillian at a table then queues for tea and cucumber sandwiches. The lady serving gives Maggie a long, hard stare as she takes her money and Maggie can still feel the heat rising in her cheeks as she carries their refreshments back to Lillian.
The Peacock Summer Page 18