‘She’s upset ’cos I didn’t phone her after my starring appearance in court today.’
‘Well, she did dare you to climb up onto that thing – perhaps she was feelin’ guilty?’
‘Perhaps. But she’s starting to cluck, Lenny. I can’t bear it when they get serious. I think it’s time to move on…’
‘Well there’s a surprise…’ Lenny was laconic. ‘The way you carry on, you’re gonna work your way through every available skirt in Somerset. Don’t tell me, you’ve got a new bird in yer sights?
Charlie tapped the side of his nose and grinned. ‘As a matter of fact, Lenny, me old sparkplug, I have. Come on, we’d better get a move on or there’ll be no drinking time for us this evening.’
As he climbed into the tractor, Charlie looked back up the lane and whistled. ‘There it is again.’ The Lamborghini was making its way down the lane, past the field yet again. ‘They’re not lost, Lenny, whatever else they’re up to…’ And as they watched, the car pulled over to the field entrance and stopped. ‘Well, well,’ said Charlie, softly, ‘It’s my guess, Lenny, we’re about to find out what it is they’re after.’
* * *
Stephen hurried across the yard. His cows out to graze on the fresh grass, and the sluicing of the milking parlour finished, he had just time to change and swallow a bite of supper before he was due at the rehearsal.
Jenny was at the kitchen table, knitting a sweater of the most glorious hue, tears slipping, unheeded, down her cheeks.
‘Mum, what’s up? What’s wrong?’ Stephen went to her in alarm; he seldom saw Jenny cry.
She looked up in surprise, ‘Wrong dear? Nothing’s wrong. Why?’
Stephen’s eyes started to sting and water. An acrid smell assailed his nostrils. ‘Aw, Mum, what is that awful smell?’
Jenny placidly resumed her knitting, ‘Green tomato chutney, dear.’
Every year, Jenny seemed to produce more green tomatoes than she ever did ripe ones, and every year, all their friends and neighbours, and the WI, received more jars of green tomato chutney than they could ever want.
‘Angela phoned and asked if you could pick her up on your way in. She’s got lots of things she needs to take to your rehearsal.’
‘Oh, right. She’s been collecting props, I expect. It’s early days, but she likes to get ahead. She’s good, like that.’
Angela Upton was the Merlin Players’ assistant stage manager and the producer’s general factotum. Stephen liked Angela; she didn’t alarm him, unlike the majority of the Players, and in her company, he felt comfortable with himself. She worked in the town’s library, and it had been as a result of meeting Angela at the library, when he was on a mission for his mother and grandmother, both of whom were avid readers, although their tastes in literature couldn’t have been more different, that had led to his introduction to the Merlin Players.
He had been looking at a poster advertising a play when a young girl who, with her frizzy brown hair, timid expression and huge spectacles, reminded him of the numerous mice regularly caught by Samson, the farm’s cat, stopped and asked him, shyly, if he was interested in theatre. He had replied, equally shyly, that he didn’t know the first thing about it, and she explained that she was meant to be doing the backstage work on the production in question, but was finding it impossible to find anyone to help her with the set construction…
‘I hope those Merlin people appreciate you and Angela.’ Jenny put her knitting to one side and started to busy herself getting Stephen’s supper ready as he made himself a cup of tea. ‘You both work so hard. I hope they don’t take you for granted!’ She put a pan of water, for frozen peas, on the hot plate and peered into the oven to check on the state of the dish baking there. The faintest whiff of burnt potato reached Stephen’s nostrils.
‘I enjoy it Mum, otherwise I wouldn’t do it.’ It was true: he had been the stage manager for the Merlin Players for ten years now and the thrill had not yet worn off. He loved the rehearsals; he loved the sounds of words he often could not understand; he loved the stomach-clenching-adrenalin-kick as he gave the calls to curtain up; he loved the vulnerability of the actors when, lost for words, they turned to him in a mute appeal; he loved the smell of the paint, the smell of the grease, the smell of dust burning in hot lanterns. He loved everything, everything, except being on stage himself.
When Angela had first persuaded him to go along, the producer, desperate for male performers, and presented with a tall, well-built young man, had tried to persuade Stephen to try for a part. So great was his fright that he nearly passed out, and even now, when he had to read in for a missing actor, his face would redden and his voice squeak with terror. He had once confided to Angela that his enjoyment of the whole experience was blighted by the producer’s insistence that he took the stage for a vote of thanks on the last night. ‘It’s getting so as I start thinking about it from curtain up on Wednesday. By Saturday teatime, I’m in such a funk, I can’t eat a thing.’
His family, unaware of any of this, regarded his continuing enthusiasm with considerable bemusement.
‘Here’s your food, dear: shepherd’s pie. Eat it while it’s nice and hot, then you can get changed after.’ As he sat himself at the table, Jenny, glancing across at him, picked up her knitting and tried to adopt a casual-but-interested tone. ‘Is it all the same people, or have you got any new members joined up for this play?’
Jenny nurtured hopes that belonging to the Merlin Players would provide Stephen with opportunities to meet ‘the right girl’, as she put it, but in the years he had been devoting his spare time to production after production, not a single girl had come to the farm, apart from Angela, that is, who helped him paint the scenery and make the props.
Stephen, wolfing down his pie, was familiar with the unspoken enquiry, and sighed. ‘We’re a bit short, so Mrs P is bringing along her au pair. I haven’t met her yet. She’s from Romania.’
‘That’s nice.’ There was silence for a moment, then a hopeful ‘Perhaps she would like to come and visit the farm…’
Stephen was dismissive. ‘Perhaps, Mum, perhaps.’ He shovelled a mouthful of minced meat into his mouth then grimaced. ‘I hate to say it, Mum, but even this food tastes of vinegar!’ He looked up. ‘I know I’m having my supper early, but where is everyone? Seems awful quiet…’
‘Your gran’s having her supper in her room, on account of the smell; Charlie says he and Lenny are working late; Alison came back from riding Bumble, went to her room and I haven’t seen her since. If you’re going into Summerbridge, dear, you might offer her a lift. I think it’d do her good to spend some time away from her books and she could go and see some friends while you’re doing your theatrics.’
‘Aw, do I have to, Mum? She’ll just give me an earful about her allowance…’
‘Yes, well, I don’t think it would do no harm for you to explain just how things are…’
A tap on the kitchen door interrupted them. The cheerful countenance of Jeff Babbington, the local vet, peered round the door. His two favourite Tuckers greeted him warmly and he came into the room. He was a tall man of ample proportions, in his mid-fifties, with a ruddy colour, shrewd blue eyes under bushy brows, and deep laughter lines, which etched his face. His hair was still thick and wavy, brown and liberally flecked with gray, and he had a habit of ruffling it with both hands before throwing back his head and laughing, which he did often.
As Jenny fussed over the kettle, Stephen pushed his plate away and stood up, belching apologetically. ‘Thanks for the food Mum. Sorry I can’t stop, Jeff, I’ve got to dash. Got a rehearsal this evening…’
‘Oh, what is it this time, Steve? Nice bit of light comedy? A whodunit? I could bring your Mum…’
‘I’m not sure she’d understand it… I’m not sure I do. Mrs P says it was written three hundred years ago and it’s a romantic comedy, for what that’s worth. It’s ca
lled, um… Bow something…’
‘The Beaux’ Stratagem,’ said Alison in the Land Rover a short while later, ‘by George Farquhar; he was Irish.’
‘Well, it’s all Irish to me, ha ha!’ said Stephen, the weak joke an attempt to lighten the atmosphere between him and Alison. She had accepted his offer of a lift, but as he had predicted, she had given him a hard time. It had been somewhat tempered by Jenny pressing a five pound note into her hand as they left, with an apologetic whisper: ‘Don’t be too cross with Stephen, dear. He really is struggling. Here, take this, I was saving it for a rainy day.’
Alison was not inclined to let her brother off the hook, but in the face of a humble apology, she had relented and had changed the subject, choosing instead to lash that, which next to his cows, she knew was dearest to his heart.
‘Why on earth does your producer choose such archaic rubbish? I suppose it’s because they all like poncing around in long dresses and wigs, fiddling with their fans and swordsticks…lah, zounds me lud, and stap me vitals! How you can persuade people to part with good money to watch that lot making prats of themselves beats me!’
‘You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about… They’re really good… At least some of them are. We nearly won the Rose Bowl a couple of years ago, and now Nicola is back, we reckon we stand a good chance with…with…Bow Strategy.’
‘Who’s Nicola?’
‘Oh,’ said Stephen, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, hoping that Alison should think the creeping blush warming his face, was due to the evening sun. ‘She’s just a girl who used to belong to the Players when I first joined. She left and went to a drama school in London. She’s, um, in between acting jobs, for the moment, and Mrs P has persuaded her to take part in the…the…’
‘The Beaux’ Stratagem. You’re going to have to remember what it’s called, Stephen, if you’re to have any street cred. What’s she like?’
‘Who?’
‘Nicola, the actress. What’s she like? Do you fancy her?’
To Stephen’s intense relief, before he had time to reply, they passed the war memorial in the centre of the town and Alison caught sight of a bunch of her friends gathered around a small cluster of motorbikes. She shrieked at him to let her off and, having made a hasty arrangement for the return journey, she had slipped out of the car, the subject of Stephen and Nicola temporarily forgotten. Nicola had been the object of Stephen’s secret passion ever since he had first met her ten years ago, then a precocious seventeen-year-old with glossy dark curls, and blue eyes set firmly on starry horizons. He had fallen desperately, hopelessly in love with her, and although her visits to Summerbridge over the years were infrequent, his passion had not abated.
* * *
‘Pepperoni, ham and pineapple, or a meat feast?’ Paula Spinks shouted, her head inside an old chest freezer that Lenny had rescued from a tip and got working again.
‘Pepperoni, please, love. Charlie?’
‘Pepperoni’ll do me, too, darling, thanks.’
Charlie stretched out on the battered old sofa, removing a plastic sten gun from the small of his back as he did so. For a moment, he reflected on the curious conversation he’d had with the man who had climbed out of the Lamborghini.
He was a flash bugger, in a dark suit, dripping in gold and wearing dark glasses, not much older than Charlie. He’d walked over to them, asked who owned the land, and then drawn Charlie out of Lenny’s earshot and asked if Charlie would consider renting him the field for a short period of time. Charlie had said he would, if there was money in it, and started to ask him what he’d want it for, but Dark Glasses had forestalled any further questioning, taken Charlie’s number, and said he’d be in touch, and that Charlie was not to say anything to anybody, not even to Lenny, who was looking on, full of curiosity. And that was that. Charlie shrugged – something and nothing.
He and Lenny had worked on until quite late, and he was starving, but the thought of Elsie, waiting to cross swords with him at home had led to his abandoning all thoughts of going back to Marsh Farm to eat and throwing himself on the mercy of Paula, Lenny’s wife.
She appeared at the door of the little sitting room, two large pizza boxes in her arms, and said cheerfully, ‘These won’t take two ticks in the microwave. I’ve put some more beer in the fridge, Lenny. When you’ve got a mo’ darlin’, can you go and turn the kids’ telly off; time they was asleep.’
From the noises, thumps and yells upstairs, which were sufficiently loud at times to drown the sound of the TV permanently on in the corner of the tiny living room, it seemed to Charlie, Paula and Lenny’s numerous progeny were anything but ready for sleep. In fact, Charlie had noticed, both Paula and Lenny seemed completely immune to any noise their children could make.
The Spinks family lived in cheerful chaos in a small cottage that was tied to Marsh Farm. This meant that Charlie was able to claim a proportion of Lenny’s services in lieu of rent. Lenny, himself seemed to have a number of ingenious, not always legal sources of potential income that, with the money Paula made from cleaning, appeared to keep them just above the poverty line.
Despite having produced four children in six years, Paula was still quite pretty. She had once been told that she looked like Joan Collins and she was so proud of this fact she had gone out of her way to cultivate the look, with liberal quantities of mascara, eyeliner and lipstick. She was slim, taller than Lenny, a fact emphasised by a shaky, back-combed tower of black hair and the stiletto shoes she wore at all times She was not bright, but very affable, and, not for the first time, Charlie found himself envying his friend.
Lenny, it seemed to Charlie, had got life sorted. Not that it was the sort of life that Charlie himself would want – he didn’t want to live in a small cottage with four children, and at everybody’s beck and call. But Lenny was content; he and Paula were a comfortable item, and neither of them had any greater ambition than to make enough money to pay their bills, indulge their kids, and go on holiday to Torremolinos, or somewhere equally exotic. If only he could be so contented. But he wasn’t like them. He knew he didn’t want to settle down with the sort of women who were attracted to him, but equally, he wasn’t sure how he could break out of that circle and find someone more challenging; or, he privately admitted to himself, find a way of life that would excite him more than farming ever could.
He found himself thinking about Lenny’s set up again later, at the pub, sitting at the corner of the bar and watching Linda, the landlady, pulling pints, chatting to the customers, and ordering her little fiefdom as she liked.
Linda had been at school with him. At fifteen he had fancied her something rotten. In those days she’d had long bleached hair and huge black lashed eyes that glared out from under a fearsome fringe. They had snogged in the bike sheds, but had fallen out because she told everyone ‘he was green’ and he had retaliated by saying ‘she smelled’. When they left school behind, she had disappeared off the scene for a while and then had reappeared, minus the bleach and fringe, with a husband, Stan, who was a publican, and quite a bit older than Linda. Charlie and Linda’s friendship had been renewed when, four years ago, shortly after Linda had given birth to a little girl, Stan and Linda had bought The Bunch of Grapes, a free house, and Charlie’s regular haunt.
Charlie admired Linda – he thought she was lively and courageous. She was tall and slim, her brown hair was cropped stylishly short, and she had a generous mouth and laughing hazel eyes. Not pretty, but handsome, and she controlled the antics of her regulars with great good humour, unlike Stan, who was generally a lot more taciturn.
‘They have a good life, too,’ thought Charlie to himself, draining his glass, ‘although they work bloody hard for it. And where’s Stan tonight? Poor old Linda is always holding the fort these days. And where’s Beth, why isn’t she here?’ Beth was the new, regular barmaid, and Charlie, as Lenny had rightly suspected, had her in his sights.
For a moment Charlie sat dreaming into his beer, imagining what it would be like to own his own pub, be able to drink unlimited quantities of beer and, at the end of the day, tumble into bed with…with… His daydream came to an end. He had done plenty of tumbling in his time, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d like to share a bed with, permanently.
‘Penny for them, Charlie?’
Linda smiled at him. ‘Another pint? Not like you to be here in your overalls this time of the evening. Not been home yet?’
‘Nah, me and Lenny finished late, so I grabbed a pizza up at his, then thought I’d have a couple, before I go and face the old battleaxe.’
Linda had been privy to countless moans from Charlie about Elsie Tucker, since they had been kids together.
‘What’s eating her this time?’
So Charlie, reviving slightly, with a fresh pint in one hand and a sympathetic ear on the other, told Linda about his experiences in court that morning, and the unwelcome appearance of his grandmother.
Stephen asked Alison the same question as he drove her home. ‘Mum says there’s trouble brewing. Have you done anything to rile her, Ali? Did you tell her I couldn’t find the money for your allowance this month?’
Alison was riding high on an unexpectedly good evening with her mates, who had fallen in with a small gang of bikers. One in particular had caught her attention, and she was busy trying to work out how she could meet up with him again, without giving her interest away. However, she had decided on a way to get Elsie to lend her some money, so any intimation that her Gran’s mood was less than sweet was critically important.
‘No, of course not. I wouldn’t stoop that low. I haven’t done anything that I know of… Damn and blast. I bet it’s Charlie. It usually is!’
Stephen was about to leap to his brother’s defence, as he inevitably did whenever Charlie was blamed for something, when the image of Charlie that morning, in a suit, running into the house at the mention of Elsie, flashed through his mind.
A Tangled Summer Page 4