‘Really?’ Fiona’s drawl was somewhere above grammar school but not quite St Mary’s. ‘What is it? Oh, God. It’s that awful weekly rag about gypsies that you treat like the Dead Sea Scrolls. There are at least two million of them in the study.’
‘The World’s Fair is not about gypsies. It’s a weekly newspaper for travellers. It keeps them in touch, gives them information, lets them know what Guild sites are available for ground lets. All travellers. Showmen. Fairs. Circuses. Preservationists
‘Gypsies, as I said.’ Fiona shrugged. ‘They live in caravans and leave a mess.’
‘Crap. The World’s Fair is informative, useful – and mine.’ Jack scraped the bolognese and cornflakes from the newspaper back into the bin. ‘After all, I don’t bung away back issues of your Cosmo or Marie Claire, do I?’
‘Because there aren’t any. I read them, digest them, and dispose of them. Oh, for God’s sake, stop glaring – you’ve found the damn thing, haven’t you? If it means so much to you then I’m sorry I chucked it, but just make sure you clear all that mess up – and mind the floor.’ Fiona had lost interest and was turning away. ‘And we’ve only got three minutes now.’
‘I’m not going into work this morning.’
Fiona sighed. ‘Christ, Jack. You’re not serious about this bloody auction, are you?’
‘Of course I’m serious. I’ve spent years with the Downland Trust – I owe it to everyone to be there. I don’t expect you to understand how I feel, but a huge part of my life is being taken away on Saturday. I want to be there this morning for the viewing. I’d like to know that the stuff is going to good homes.’
‘Oh, pul-ease.’ Fiona shook her head. ‘Not the personification of a heap of old junk – again. Spare me the sob story. On Saturday I intend to open the Krug and throw a party. Your anorak chums have ruined my social life for as long as I can remember. We’ve missed weekends away, tennis parties, drinks parties – every sort of bloody party. And when you have made it, you’re never on time and never exactly clean, are you? You always have paint somewhere – Jack? Are you listening to me?’
‘Yeah,’ Jack said, who wasn’t. ‘Something about your parents’ wedding anniversary, wasn’t it? Fork supper. Talk of financial bravado and monster takeover coups. “Help yourself to the prawn and avocado, Jack, and try not to drip any on the table. It’s genuine Formica.”’
‘Bastard.’ Fiona drifted back across the kitchen and curled herself against his back. ‘If you weren’t so totally gorgeous and amazing in bed, I’d’ve left you years ago.’
‘I know.’ Jack folded the stained and crumpled copy of The World’s Fair and disentangled himself from Fiona’s slender arms. ‘And I’ve got to dash. Call in and tell Dad I’ll be in after lunch.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
Jack tried not to let his frown show, and failed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I want to make sure it’s really happening. That after Saturday I’ll be living with Jack Morland, partner in Morland & Son, builders of exclusive executive homes for the upwardly mobile. Not Jack Morland, frustrated dauber of old trash and would-be gypsy. Anyway, if I come with you I can drive – which means you can leave the other love of your life safely in the garage.’ She glanced at the bracelet watch dangling from her wrist. ‘I’ll wait outside – but not for ever.’
Pausing until the front door had clicked shut, Jack spread the remaining pages of The World’s Fair open on the pale pine table. The auction had been advertised for three weeks, provoking much interest. The Downland Trust had had several serious enquiries about the collection, especially the gallopers, mostly from places like Beaulieu and Woburn. At least they wouldn’t be scrapped – but they’d no longer be his. To him they were real, alive, slumbering; Sleeping Beauty awaiting the Prince’s kiss. He grinned to himself. Fiona would have him sectioned if she knew that. The thought of losing the gallopers was intensive and invasive; hurting most when he woke at night, listening to Fiona’s contented breathing in the darkness and feeling the oppression closing in.
He flicked through the pages, finding what he sought but not needing to; he could recite the page from memory. The World’s Fair reported on the itinerary of every fair, every scrap of preservation news. Jack had prayed nightly that someone like Carter’s Steam Fair would buy the gallopers. Someone who would give them the resurrection they deserved.
The impatient blast of the Peugeot’s horn reminded him that Fiona was waiting. Still. He felt suddenly guilty. She really thought that after today he would return to the suburban fold. She had no idea what he wanted any more. And he’d lost sight of her dreams long ago. They were tugging together but in opposite directions. Sighing, he folded the paper and, with the same feeling he used to have as a child on visits to the dentist, walked out of the kitchen.
The house, neutral and minimalistic, with uncomfortable modern chairs, a futon, and some rather peculiar black ornaments, was Fiona’s ideal. Not his. He knew that he should have pulled in the reins a long time ago. But it had been so much easier to let things drift. As long as Fiona was happy turning the house into a slavish shrine to trendiness, she didn’t seem to object to his prolonged absences with the Downland Trust. But now the house was furnished and decorated exactly as she’d wanted, Fiona expected him to share it with her. To enjoy it as much as she did. It was a top-of-the-range Morland-built residence, clean, clutter-free, soulless. And Fiona – Fiona was made for the house. Bird-thin, with a blonde, no-nonsense bob, severe beige suits, and an overwhelming desire to clamber from her current position of senior sales executive to become a director of her brother’s company.
They’d lived together for five years. It seemed much longer.
Jack closed the front door. Both Fiona and the Peugeot were practically quivering with impatience. He had met Fiona when Morlands had moved the offices for their expanding building company on to a new trading estate on the outskirts of Newbury. Fiona’s brother owned the printing firm next door. It was a match enthused over by both families, and one into which they’d drifted happily at first. Jack could never quite remember when the happiness had turned to complacency, and the complacency to vague dissatisfaction and a nagging realisation that he and Fiona were unsuited. Like so many other couples, he guessed, it was easier to put up and shut up, rather than cause a major upheaval.
‘I can’t give you very long there,’ Fiona said, negotiating the car through the rabbit-warren maze of identical houses in identical culs-de-sac. ‘I’ve got appointments in Basingstoke all day. So you’ll have about twenty minutes to see who’s put their name down for what and work out how much money we’re getting.’
‘We’re not.’
‘What?’ The Peugeot roared out of the estate in the direction of the A34. ‘But you and the anoraks have poured a fortune into that pile of garbage over the years! You must be able to make something from it.’
‘We’ve already agreed we’ll take our expenses, but anything else is to go to charity. We never did this as a money-making exercise.’
‘Charity, let me remind you,’ Fiona muttered darkly, zooming into the two-lane scrum of the A34, ‘begins and ends at home.’
The barns looked only slightly less ramshackle in the bright sunlight. The green and golden fields waved happily around them, unaware of the sorrow. A blue haze had settled hopefully over the hills. There were rows of vehicles, people on foot, even someone selling donuts from a mobile kiosk. Jack slid from the Peugeot and felt sick. ‘Are you going to wait in the car?’
‘No, I’m bloody not.’ Fiona was already unbuckling her seat belt. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve longed for this. I can’t wait to see it go.’
The auction-house employees were selling catalogues. Jack waved them away. The Downland Preservation Trust – Jims and Bobs and Bens, Percy and Dennis, Fred and Harry – all greeted him with sad smiles and woebegone faces, like the congregation outside a crematorium.
They’ll all fetch the reserves, I reckon,’ Percy said gloomil
y. ‘Do you want to speak to the auctioneer?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I’ll leave that to Dennis. There’ll be plenty of time on Saturday, no doubt.’
‘Ah.’ Percy nodded. ‘Three days away. Then we kiss goodbye to our life.’
Jack patted his shoulder and walked into the barn.
Inside, there was almost a carnival atmosphere; people shoved and shouted; the exhibits, like dogs at Crufts, were being shown to their best advantage, with huge numbered tickets attached; someone was selling coffee. The smell curled into Jack’s nostrils, making him feel even more nauseous. He felt empty, bereft. He’d poured all his heart into the years spent here. Far more, he realised ruefully, than he’d poured into either his home or his relationship. He’d have to alter that now. He hadn’t been fair to Fiona for a long time. She really deserved better.
The gallopers were Lot 72. The organ was catalogued separately as Lot 84. Both had attracted a large crowd. Jack pushed his way through. The gallopers were simply spectacular. With the barn doors wide open to the strong morning sunlight, Jack’s painting gleamed, rich and glossy. Layer upon layer of colour; each layer applied after the previous one had been sandpapered down to a silk-fine finish. It was a job well done. A labour of love. He sighed. The best he could hope for was that whoever bought the gallopers would also love them enough to continue the restoration properly. The lump in his throat grew larger and he turned his head away.
The Gavioli organ, minus its tarpaulin cover, towered in a corner, looking lost. Without lights and music it was simply an ornately carved monstrous ornament. It needed a massive transfusion of power to roll the drums, crash the cymbals, play the piccolos and the xylophones, and bring the whole gaudy orchestra to life. It needed the gallopers as much as he did.
‘Can we go now?’ Fiona was gazing at the straw dust on her shoes with horror. ‘Have you seen enough?’
Jack jerked his arm away from her hand in irritation. ‘You go if you want to, I’ll get one of the lads to give me a lift.’
‘One of the lads.’ Fiona snorted in derision. ‘Lads! They’re all a bunch of pathetic old has-beens. Get a life, Jack.’
He didn’t rise to the bait. He was watching the crowd gathering around the gallopers. He couldn’t see anyone from Carter’s, but hopefully they might have sent a Steam Fair representative. ‘Now you’re here, do you want to have a look? See just what has kept me away from home for so long?’
‘Not really. The only thing that interests me is selling the stuff and having you back where you should be.’ Fiona glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, very well then. If you’re quick.’
They paused between the Gavioli and the most recently restored horses. He wanted Fiona to make some comment on his painting, but she said nothing. Her silence caused a physical pain. Did she not understand just how much this meant to him? The crowd were making appreciative noises, but it didn’t heal the wound. Jack looked at them all, disliking them intensely.
The clusters of businessmen with briefcases were definitely the stately-home brigade, and the man with the hooked nose and maroon dreadlocks was probably a rock star. The very tall woman with the flame-coloured hair – Jack watched her closely – could she be from Carter’s? She was studying her catalogue intently. She was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. There were gold hoops in her ears and a slim gold chain round her neck. Perhaps she was someone’s secretary.
‘Jack, I said we ought to be going.’ Fiona touched his hand.
He wasn’t listening. One of the briefcase brigade had motioned towards him. ‘Damn fine job you’ve done here. No trouble in selling these. You’re the painter, I believe?’
Jack thought he should say guilty as charged or something equally flippant, but there was still a lump in his throat. Percy and Dennis had joined the throng, looking as though they were about to burst into tears.
‘Oh, hello.’ The red-haired woman lifted her head from the catalogue and smiled at them in recognition. ‘I’m so sorry it had to come to this. You must be feeling lousy.’
Dennis and Percy nodded.
Jack wondered how his co-Trust members knew her. He was pretty sure he’d never seen her before. Maybe she was from one of the stately homes. Her freckled face had flushed slightly as she tapped her programme and looked anxiously at Percy. ‘Do you have a buyer for them?’
‘Rumour has it that Lady Montagu is putting in a bid for both the gallopers and the Gavioli – so at least they won’t be far away.’
‘Beaulieu?’ Nell bit her lip. ‘Really? Are you sure?’
She wasn’t from Beaulieu, then. Maybe Woburn? Jack leaned across to Percy. ‘Who is she? A serious buyer or what?’
‘Of course, you haven’t met, have you? This is – Helen, was it? No, sorry. Nell. Nell Bradley. Nell, this is Jack Morland. Our painter. You missed him when you were last here.’
Jack smiled at her. She smiled back. Her eyes, which were on a level with his, were very blue, and had green and hazel mixed in like the glass-blown threads of a marble. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job, Mr Morland. You’re very talented. The painting is fantastic.’
Jack, as usual, was embarrassed by praise. ‘Er – thank you. Are – are you representing someone? A potential buyer?’
Dennis grinned. ‘Nell’s from Bradleys. The showmen. She came in here by accident to ask directions, saw the gallopers, and of course found out about the compulsory purchase.’ He beamed. ‘She knew they were Savages straight away.’
‘So you’re a connoisseur?’
‘Not at all. I just love them. My grandparents had a set.’ She sighed. ‘What do you think will happen to them?’
‘There are a million stories flying about. Someone said Richard Branson was going to buy the lot. Someone else told me that the gallopers were destined for the White House. There was even mention of –’ Jack felt the increased pressure on his arm and stopped. ‘This is Fiona. My partner.’ Even as he spoke he thought the word sounded ridiculous. Very PC, of course, but it always reminded him of country dancing. He wished he could introduce Fiona as his lover. It sounded so much more exciting. ‘Fiona, this is – um – Nell Bradley. She likes the gallopers.’
‘I can’t understand why. Appalling heap of old junk.’ Fiona shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘I shall just be very glad to see the back of them so that Jack and I can have some time to ourselves. They’ve intruded on our relationship for far too long.’ She looked more enthusiastic. ‘Are you going to buy them?’
‘I wish I could,’ Nell said wistfully. ‘They’re beautiful.’
‘They’re awful!’ Fiona frowned. ‘They belong in a museum – if not on the scrap heap. I really can’t understand the attraction. Jack’s totally besotted. He’s wasted years here.’
Nell wrinkled her nose. ‘Not wasted, surely? He’s a brilliant painter. Even if you don’t like the gallopers, you must admit that his craftsmanship and skill is incredible.’
‘You’re obviously an expert in these matters. Anyway, if you’re not a potential buyer, we mustn’t keep you. Jack’s keen to talk to people who want to buy. Aren’t you, darling?’
‘Not necessarily –’
‘It’s been so nice to meet you.’ Nell moved away a little. ‘I do hope you find suitable buyers – especially after all your hard work.’
Dennis and Percy, Fred and Harry were talking to her now. Jack wished he could join in. In all the time he’d spent working on the gallopers he’d met very few genuine showmen. He knew their names of course, from The World’s Fair, knew which rides they’d bought and sold, had even seen them on his frequent visits to fairgrounds. But he’d always been on the periphery. The outsider with his nose pressed up against the window.
And Nell had had a set of gallopers in her family, too. She might even remember the exact shade of the Tudor roses on the original Savage shields, something that had eluded him for months. But it was too late. The stately-home mob had moved in and Nell had disappeared.
‘Jack!’ Fiona’s voice penetrated his t
houghts. ‘Let’s just do what we have to and get out of here. I can hardly breathe.’
‘OK. I’ll just need to do a final check with Percy and Dennis about serious bidders. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait in the car?’
‘Absolutely. If I leave you here you’ll stay for ever and I have to be in Basingstoke before lunch. Oh, hello again.’
‘Sorry to interrupt you.’ Nell’s smile was charming as she indicated Percy and Dennis and the Woburn contingent. ‘I just wondered if there was a reserve price on everything – I meant to ask just now, but they seemed so busy.’
Jack’s hopes soared. Maybe she was serious. ‘The auctioneers thought it was best to fix early reserves. They said we can always have another sale if we’ve set the ceilings too high. Have you changed your mind about bidding?’
‘Jack! Really!’ Fiona’s shrill laugh made several people turn their heads and stare. ‘Don’t sound so eager to sell. You know nothing about the strategy of marketing, obviously.’ She gave Nell a woman-to-woman look. ‘Men are so pathetically open, aren’t they? Desperation before consideration. I’m sure that’s why the top sellers in this country are female. We know how to play our cards close to our Janet Regers.’
Jack looked at Fiona with some surprise. It was the first time for ages he’d heard her make anything near to a joke.
Nell smiled again at the sisterhood reference. ‘When I was here previously, I was told fifty thousand for the gallopers and another fifteen thousand for the organ. Does that still stand?’
‘We’ve put a reserve of forty-five thou on the gallopers and twelve on the organ – if they go separately. We’ll consider bids of fifty-five upwards for the pair.’
Nell closed her catalogue and tapped it against her teeth. They were very white teeth, Jack noticed, not quite straight. He looked at her hopefully. ‘Is Bradleys’ Fair looking for a Savage and a Gavioli, then?’
Stealing the Show Page 9