A loud clap and ‘Thank you,’ stopped him.
And then it wasn’t just the one pistol-shot of a clap, there was applause; proper applause from the others in the audience.
Ashley felt his face flare with pleasure and relief and with embarrassment. He hadn’t been expecting this – not from grown-ups, not at an audition.
Then Cassandra was on stage with him. ‘So, Ashley Pullen, when can you start?’
Ashley could remember how thrilled he’d been when the panto had been a success, how chuffed with the applause and praise that he’d received for each performance but it paled into insignificance compared to the unalloyed delight he was experiencing at being accepted by other actors – proper actors, people who knew what they were doing. These weren’t other kids, mucking around, pretending to act, and his audience wasn’t parents who had to say nice things. This was the real deal and he’d been accepted. If he knew how to do a whole series of backflips he’d have flick-flacked across the stage in joy.
‘As soon as you want me,’ he said. ‘Now?’ he added hopefully.
*
‘I got it, I got it,’ Ashley gabbled as he fell in through the front door, his excitement leaving him uncoordinated and almost incoherent.
Amy looked up from the sofa. ‘Got what? A dose of the flu?’
‘No, Mum, I got into the theatre group. They liked me. They liked my audition.’
‘Oh, is that all.’
Ashley felt suddenly deflated.
‘Look,’ added his mum seeing her son’s expression, ‘I get that you like acting and I get that I was wrong about your reasons why.’ Which she had been left in no doubt about by her son during a very heated conversation. ‘But I still worry about what this is going to do to your school work.’
‘It’ll be OK, I promise.’
Amy looked supremely unconvinced. ‘Oh, yeah.’
‘I managed with the panto, didn’t I?’
‘You weren’t doing no mock GCSEs when you did that. It’s all different now – and next term with the real thing…’
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ yelled Ashley as he slammed out of the room and thundered up the stairs. He raced into his room, banged the door shut behind him and threw himself on his bed. Why couldn’t she see that this was his future? That acting was the only thing he wanted to do?
At least the bunch at the theatre ‘got it’. He thought about his new friends. Well, they weren’t friends yet but he was sure they’d become so – he certainly liked them and he was sure they liked him. They liked his acting ability so that was a start. There was Cassandra with all her scarves and beads and bling, and then there was the woman with the Cupid’s bow mouth who looked like some sort of forties film idol and dressed like one, too, with retro clothes and waved hair. And the men who were so confident, so self-assured, with their expansive gestures and casual elegance. No one thought acting was dressing up or showing off or ‘gay’ like his mum and Mags did. No, it was just what they did, how they rolled and, what was more, at the theatre almost everyone seemed to be a bit odd, a bit eccentric, but they were all so proud of their differences. Not like at school were everyone was desperate to fit in, to be the same. Where ‘difference’ was to be avoided at all costs.
No, he thought, that wasn’t strictly true; school was full of kids who were different but they gravitated towards similarly different kids… the Goths, the petrol-heads, the jocks all hung around in their various groups, some of which were cooler than the others. Jocks were definitely cool, the geeks less so. And Ashley had been aware for some time that, although he was reasonably popular, he didn’t have a group he fitted right into. He could feign an interest in cars or sports but it was all faked. But now… now he had a gang that was perfect and he hadn’t felt happier.
*
The Sunday after Ashley had auditioned successfully for the Woodford Players, Miranda picked up the book club book. Roderick had gone off for a golf match with some of his colleagues from chambers and she was on her own. She stared at the book as if it was some totally noxious medicine that she’d been told she had to swallow. With a deep sigh she opened the cover and flicked over the pages till she reached the first chapter. She told herself to switch off the critical part of her brain, the part which she knew would abhor the book. This was, she was certain, going to be the equivalent of eating pappy white bread when she might have been getting stuck into a wonderful artisanal seeded rye loaf. Heigh-ho… she made a start.
At the bottom of the second page the heroine made a pithy comeback to a customer in her shop and Miranda felt her mouth twitch. Yes… well… just as one swallow didn’t make a summer, one snappy one-liner was unlikely to make this a great read. She carried on. Three pages later she giggled. OK, she conceded, maybe it wasn’t great literature but at least it was entertaining. Miranda glanced at her watch. She’d give it another hour before she went to do something more worthwhile.
The click of the key in the front door startled her so much she almost dropped the book. Dear God, was that Roderick home already? She looked at her watch. Four o’clock! Where had the time gone? Guiltily, she stuffed the book behind the sofa cushions. Roderick would laugh himself silly if he saw what she was reading. And if he did find out she’d lie about how much she’d enjoyed it. Now, if he knew that he’d split his sides.
Chapter 45
The following evening Miranda pushed open the door of the pub and made her way in. She wasn’t a fan of pubs but, to judge by first impressions, this one wasn’t all bad. There was a fire burning in the big inglenook and there were no flashing fruit machines or hideous muzak. She supposed that if you liked country pubs, this one was OK. She walked over to the bar.
‘Evening,’ she said to the woman she remembered greeting on New Year’s Day – presumably the landlady.
‘Hello. And what can I get you?’
Miranda thought. Did she want a drink? ‘Erm… I’m here for the book club.’
‘That doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to drink. In fact there’s some members who reckon it’s compulsory.’
Bex had said something to that effect – that they had wine and nibbles and chat. It didn’t sound as though the conversation was likely to be very cerebral – but then the book hadn’t been either. ‘Oh. Maybe a small glass of a vegan white wine then.’
The landlady gave her a long stare. ‘Listen, m’dear…’
What was it with the people in this town that they couldn’t address anyone properly? ‘Yes.’
‘This is a country pub. We don’t do vegan wines. You can have a Cabernet Sauvignon, a white Rioja or a Chardonnay. And they come in three sizes; large, small or a bottle.’
‘A bottle!’
‘If you’re going to have more than one glass, it’ll work out cheaper. Or you could share it – help to break the ice, seeing as how you’re new here.’
Miranda hadn’t thought of that. She needn’t drink more than a sip or two. The sky wouldn’t fall in if she didn’t stick to her principles absolutely.
‘A white Rioja, then. A bottle.’
‘How many glasses?’
‘Four.’
As the landlady found a tray, loaded it up and rang up the purchase on the till she said, ‘I’m Belinda. And you are…? Seventeen pounds please.’
‘Oh, Miranda Osborne.’ She extracted a twenty and handed it over.
‘You up at The Grange?’
She nodded.
‘You dealt with your… problem yet?’ Was the landlady smirking?
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Any clue as to who did it?’
‘No. I’m sure we’ll find out eventually.’
‘Doubt it,’ said a male voice from across the room.
Miranda spun round and eyeballed the eavesdropper. ‘Why, do you know something?’ She gave him a gimlet stare – one of the ones she used to use in court.
The old boy appeared unfazed and chuckled by way of response.
‘You take no notice
of old Harry; he’s a troublemaker. Aren’t you, you old git?’
The old boy drained his drink and wandered over to the bar where he put his tankard down and then returned Miranda’s stare at closer quarters.
‘Just remember, what goes around comes around,’ he said to her before he shuffled off towards the door.
She had no idea what he meant but she felt slightly rattled all the same. She grabbed the tray and her change. ‘The function room?’
Belinda indicated a flight of stairs. ‘Up there. It’s all laid out ready.’
Which meant she was the first. For some reason, maybe it was the encounter with Harry, she felt nervous. Was this a good idea? Was she walking into a lion’s den of people who had already formed a hostile opinion of her?
Miranda went up to the room, dumped the tray, wandered over to the window and looked out. She saw the woman next door open and shut the gate and head for the pub. A few minutes later she heard footsteps on the stairs.
‘Hi, Miranda,’ she said as she reached the function room. ‘Belinda told me you were here ahead of me. She also told me you bought white so I went for red.’ Bex waved a bottle before dumping it on the tray and then putting down several glasses she had threaded between the fingers of her other hand.
Miranda was aghast. Wine! While pregnant!
‘Not that I’m drinking it.’ Bex glanced down at her tummy.
Miranda relaxed and allowed herself to smile in approval.
‘I’ve got a lime and lemonade on the bar. I’ll just fetch it.’
Bex shot off back down the stairs and returned a few seconds later with a tall glass containing her drink. ‘Cheers,’ she said as she took a swig.
Miranda cracked open the screw top on her bottle and poured herself a small glass. ‘Cheers,’ she replied.
‘We’ve got to hope that not everyone buys a whole bottle. We’ll all be under the table if they do.’
How incredibly irresponsible if the group behaved like that. ‘Indeed,’ was all Miranda could bring herself to say. She fished in her bag for the book. ‘Here, I’d better give it back to you.’
More footsteps were heard on the stairs. It was Olivia. The pair stared at each other.
‘I think you two have met,’ said Bex cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the change in atmosphere. ‘But you haven’t been formally introduced. Olivia meet Miranda, Miranda this is Olivia. Miranda lives in your old house.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Olivia.
‘And you work at the hotel,’ countered Miranda. The atmosphere was Baltic.
Bex shot worried looks from one to the other. ‘Wine?’
*
Fifteen minutes later everyone had arrived and the noise level in the function room was epic.
Bex picked up a biro and pinged the side of an empty wine glass. The imperious ding-ding-ding cut through the conversations which all gradually petered out.
‘Good evening,’ said Bex, ‘and an especial welcome to our latest member, Miranda Osborne, who has moved into The Grange quite recently.’
A ripple of greetings ran round the room. Olivia scowled.
‘So, I think we ought to get started but before we do maybe Miranda would like to tell us a little bit about herself. So if you’d like to top up your glasses and take your seats…’
The women in the book club refilled their glasses and settled down while Miranda worked out which bits of her life she was prepared to share.
‘My husband, Roderick, and I moved here from London. We’re both lawyers but I don’t practise any more. I’m passionate about veganism and animal welfare—’
‘Don’t we know it,’ someone muttered not quite sotto voce.
Miranda raised her voice a fraction, ‘—and in sustainability in all things. After London, I value the deep peace of the country,’ she flashed a look at Heather who stared back, ‘as, I am sure everyone does.’ Heather looked sceptical. ‘As you probably know, I am also against pollution of any sort… noise, air, casual littering. I will do my best to prevent it using any means possible.’ She glared again at Heather who looked coolly back. ‘There, I think that covers the important things.’
‘Thank you, Miranda.’ Bex beamed at the club members and held up her copy of the book. ‘Who’d like to open the batting?’
‘I would,’ said Heather, ‘but just before I do I thought I’d share some lovely news with you all – well, Olivia knows this already but I don’t think the rest of you do. As you know, we finished the fundraising just before Christmas and the foundry is coming to repair the bell frame in the near future. It’s going to be quite a job but we’re hopeful we’ll be able to ring out the bells again at the Easter service. Won’t that be lovely?’ As the book group agreed whole-heartedly that it would, indeed, be lovely, Heather gave Miranda her broadest smile and was rewarded with a stony stare back. Did Miranda mouth, ‘we’ll see about that’?
*
Downstairs, Amy wandered into the bar.
‘Hiya, Belinda. Anyone been asking for me?’
‘Another date?’
Amy nodded. ‘Thought I might give it one last throw of the dice before I resign myself to being a lonely old maid. And a G and T please.’
‘That sounds a bit defeatist.’ Belinda put a glass under the optic and gave Amy a double shot. ‘And no, no one’s been in yet.’
Amy shrugged. ‘Why shouldn’t I be defeatist? I mean, look at the last two.’
‘Third time lucky?’ Belinda dropped ice and a slice into the drink and then poured in the tonic.
‘Maybe.’ Amy didn’t sound convinced. ‘How much?’
‘On the house.’
‘Oh, Belinda, you don’t have to.’
‘No, I don’t but you sound as if you need cheering up.’
‘Cheers, hon.’ Amy took a swig and leaned an elbow on the bar.
‘So, what’s this one like?’
‘Well… he says he likes watching soaps, and Sunday lunches at the pub, and he plays rugby for Catteford Extra B. I don’t know nothing about rugby but is that good?’
‘The Extra Bs?’ Belinda giggled. ‘No, it’s desperate, but it means he plays for the fun of it and there’s more beer drinking involved than playing.’
‘So, he’s not bigging himself up?’
‘Not if he’s admitting to playing for the Extra B side.’
‘Maybe there’s hope for this one.’
‘Good luck. And, er…’ Belinda scratched her nose. ‘The usual signal?’
‘Might as well.’ Amy took her drink and went over to a table near the window and played with her phone as she waited for her date.
She was engrossed in a game of solitaire when a voice said, ‘May I join you?’
Startled she glanced up and saw a bloke about her age with a crooked nose, very smiley blue eyes and a devastating smile. He looked like a hero from an action film. No, she couldn’t be this lucky.
‘Sorry, but I’m waiting for a date.’
‘Amy?’
Amy’s heart banged against her ribs. Blimey, maybe her luck had changed. ‘Ryan?’
‘That’s me? Drink?’ He put his Guinness down on the table.
Amy glanced at her glass and saw it was half empty. She necked the last of it and handed it over. ‘G and T, ta.’
‘Back in a tick.’
As he turned to go to the bar she caught Belinda’s eye and gave her a big thumbs up. Belinda grinned back.
*
‘So,’ said Bex, as the discussion about the book came to a close, ‘I think we’re all in agreement that that book wasn’t great literature, but it was a thumping good read.’ She grinned at the group who were all feeling happily relaxed after a glass – or several – of wine. ‘And I think it would be nice if we invited our newest member to choose our next read. Miranda – have you got a suggestion for us?’
Miranda had been planning to point the group towards something uplifting, something literary, something… worthy. She had a mental list: One Hundred Year
s of Solitude; Ulysses; To the Lighthouse… So she was a tiny bit surprised when she heard herself say, ‘Have you read Love in a Cold Climate?’
‘Nancy Mitford?’ checked Bex.
Miranda nodded and everyone else shook their heads.
‘Sell it to us,’ said Bex.
Miranda told them about the mad aristocratic family with a myriad of daughters and the efforts made to marry them off. Her audience looked bemused or gobsmacked.
‘And the best thing is, it’s pretty much an autobiography,’ finished Miranda.
‘I’m sold,’ said Bex.
‘And me,’ chorused most of the others.
Olivia was conspicuously silent.
‘Olivia?’ asked Bex.
‘If we must. I feel it’s a book that’s been done to death. TV adaptations, dramatisations… And then there’s the endless biographies of the Mitfords.’
Bex and Miranda exchanged a glance before Bex said, ‘It’s a valid point, Olivia, but I think the majority are in favour.’
‘As you wish.’ She sniffed. ‘Still,’ she muttered, ‘at least I won’t have to waste time reading the wretched book.’
The function room emptied slowly but Olivia deliberately hung back to leave with Bex.
‘Fancy a coffee at mine?’ offered Bex.
‘I’d love one. Now I work I really don’t see enough of my old friends.’
The pair walked down the stairs. In the bar they saw Amy chatting animatedly to a good-looking man.
‘Do you think that’s a date?’ said Bex. ‘If it is, let’s hope he’s a better bet than that awful Billy.’
‘He can’t be worse,’ said Olivia.
They thanked Belinda for the use of the function room and made their way next door to Bex’s house.
‘Did your parents get home OK after Christmas?’ asked Olivia as Bex opened the front door.
Bex nodded and said, ‘Yes, thanks. It was a lovely Christmas, well… mostly.’ She went to the foot of the stairs. ‘I’m back,’ she called up them.
A just audible, ‘OK,’ came back from the attic.
‘Mostly?’ queried Olivia.
The Bells of Little Woodford Page 33