Claudia watched the crane-flies skittering through the shimmering grass and didn’t answer. The heat haze throbbed almost as insistently as the generators.
‘Is it?’ Sam leaned closer.
She shook her head. ‘It can’t. I mean –’
‘You’re Danny’s wife. My sister-in-law. Strictly a no-go area. I should have told you how I felt years ago before he married you.’
‘It still wouldn’t have been any good.’ Claudia looked at him. She felt like crying. ‘I wouldn’t have been any good to you. You see, I hate being mauled and touched and groped. I – I don’t like sex – I hate it!’
Sam still stared at her. His face didn’t move. ‘With Danny? Or with anyone ?’
‘How the hell would I know? I’ve only ever been with Danny.’
Sam trailed his finger down her flushed cheek. ‘Yes, I remember. Poor Claudia.’
‘Don’t pity me!’ She jerked away from him.
‘You always say sex. Not making love. Is that the trouble?’
‘It’s all the same,’ Claudia said crossly. ‘And don’t trot out any old claptrap about sex turning miraculously into making love if you have the right partner because I won’t believe you. I’ve read the magazines. Watched all the bare-your-soul self-analysis shit on the telly. I just don’t like it. Any of it.’
‘What about cuddles? Or kisses?’ Sam had his back to her. ‘Don’t you like them either?’
‘We don’t – Danny doesn’t – Christ, I shouldn’t be saying this.’
‘No wonder you don’t enjoy it.’ Sam turned to look at her. ‘What does he do? Roll-on roll-off? The bastard.’
‘Stop it!’ Claudia blinked back her tears. ‘Shut up, Sam. Just shut up.’
‘Do you want me to kiss you?’
She backed off quickly, the panic rising. ‘No I don’t! Oh –’ Across the silent field she saw the door of her living wagon open, and Terry and Karen slip out across the grass, their hair damp, unable to stop touching.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and pushed past Sam in the direction of the Nutmeg and Spice. ‘I think we ought to go and have that drink.’
Sam stood aside. ‘I want to kiss you. Properly.’
She pretended not to hear. She kept walking. The heat haze continued to shimmer with even more intensity. It was still deserted. No one would see them. But it was wrong. The way Sam made her feel was very, very wrong. Sam had caught up. ‘I said –’
‘Maybe we should just forget it.’ Claudia jumped as he touched her arm. ‘All of it. Danny would kill us both anyway even if we were just having a drink together. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’
She ran across the warm grass, cursing, blinking back her tears. Why did he have to spoil it? Why couldn’t he just join in with her fantasy? The look but not touch? Why did Sam – who she thought was so different – have to be the bloody same as all the others?
Chapter Ten
‘And now we come to Lot number sixty-eight. An agricultural hand-plough dating from the end of the last century.’ The auctioneer’s voice rang fruitily through the dusty rafters.
Nell had folded and unfolded her catalogue so many times that it was as flimsy as tissue paper. She wriggled in the uncomfortable chair. As the sale items were so bulky, the would-be purchasers had been seated in circular tiers facing the walls and the lots were illuminated by spotlights. A viewing area had been cordoned off in front of each exhibit, and some proprietary bidders were still lurking beside whichever items had caught their eye.
Nell glared for the umpteenth time at the small but prosperously dressed knot of people in front of both the Savage and the Gavioli. They looked like they had the full backing of Coutts. She shouldn’t have come. It was a Saturday, the busiest day for the fair, and the last day at King’s Bagley. There was pull-down tonight so she wouldn’t get to bed until at least two. Claudia, Danny, and Sam had given her the third-degree and Ross had been so nice to her since the evening at Le Manoir that she was beginning to have serious doubts. Maybe she should just give in gracefully and marry him.
She had seen Percy and Dennis and one of the Jims on her arrival, but none of the other Trust members. The painter – Jack – oh, what was his name? – ah, yes, Morland – wasn’t in evidence either. Perhaps he couldn’t bear to witness the slaughter. The auctioneer was taking spirited bids for the plough at such speed that Nell wondered how anyone ever purchased anything that they actually wanted. And if they did, how they knew what they’d paid.
She wasn’t sure if she’d have the guts to wave her catalogue in the air when the time came. She had already learned that the sardonic lift of an eyebrow, so beloved on celluloid auctions, would get you precisely nowhere. And once she’d leapt to her feet to bid, would the auctioneer even notice her amongst all these professionals? Despite her height, she was pretty sure no one would spot her and she’d be left mouthing helplessly, growing more and more pink-cheeked. Her stomach contracted at the thought of such humiliation.
She’d got the money – just – against the bank manager and the accountant’s better judgements, but her high-street draft was going to look pretty small beer beside the massed cheques of the merchant establishments.
Panic kicked in once more. Oh, God. What was she doing?
‘Sold to the gentleman in the cap!’ the auctioneer called loudly, with a crack of the gavel. ‘If you’d see the clerk, sir. And next we have Lot sixty-nine –’
Not remotely interested in a Fordson tractor without wheels, Nell fanned herself with her catalogue. It was stiflingly hot again. Her white silk shirt was already clinging and her leather trousers were the biggest mistake since the poll tax. Her hands were clammy. There were two more lots before the gallopers: a small set of chairoplanes and a barn engine. She wasn’t sure that she’d survive the excitement.
‘Is that a bid, madam?’ The auctioneer nodded in Nell’s direction. ‘With you for the Fordson at two-fifty?’
‘No – er – sorry.’ Scarlet-faced, she sat firmly on the catalogue. The bids resumed. Strange what some people would buy, Nell thought. Unless of course, they happened to have a set of Fordson wheels hanging around in their garage, and had been waiting for just such an opportunity.
She wondered what Ross would say if he knew where she was. What she was doing. The evening at Le Manoir had been a disaster. The food, the ambience, the attention had been out of this world. Sadly, Nell’s temper-level had been running on a short fuse. Over the melt-in-the-mouth pudding, which had looked far too pretty to eat, Ross, despite his assurances to the contrary, had lit the detonator.
‘Danny and Sam still want me to join you at Haresfoot, regardless of your objections.’ He’d waved his spoon across the table. ‘I’ll have to arrive without any rides – mainly because you won’t sign the cheques – and wait for you to change your mind. You’ll have the pick of Jessons with which to compliment your rather quaint collection. I shall, of course, bring my own living wagon to start with – but I’m hoping that it’ll be superfluous by the end of the first week. How does that grab you?’
The auctioneer had sold the Fordson and moved on to the chairoplanes. Nell cringed, recalling the riveted interest of Le Manoir’s clientele as she told Ross precisely what he could do with his rides, his wealth, and his living wagon. She’d rounded off the spectacle by hurling down her napkin, asking the rather sweet waiter to ring for a taxi, and telling Ross that she hoped never to see him again – or at least not in this lifetime.
The taxi fare had been astronomical. And when she’d arrived back at Oakton, Ross’s Ferrari was already parked outside her living wagon. He’d laughed at her. Laughed! She’d pummelled at him, shouted, and finally pushed him down the steps and locked the door. Any other man on earth, Nell thought, would have taken that as a definite no. Not Ross.
He had sent bouquets of flowers, phoned incessantly, and eventually turned up at King’s Bagley, with a shy grin and a bagful of apologies. She had told him coldly and not very politely that the relatio
nship was over. Danny, who had muscled in on the row, had said that it wasn’t. Ross had laughed some more, suggested they had a cooling-off period, and said no doubt she’d change her mind when he arrived at Haresfoot after Henley Regatta.
No amount of screaming at Danny or appealing to Sam had made any difference. They were adamant. Ross Percival was going to join them – and she had better get used to the idea and start signing the cheques. In her new hippie mode, Claudia had even had the effrontery to suggest that Nell ‘might see things differently then, and wasn’t she being just a little bit selfish?’ Nell, feeling venomous towards her entire family, had telephoned her mother.
‘Now Lot seventy-one.’ The auctioneer had sold the chairoplanes to a pair of old ladies who looked like Hinge and Bracket. ‘A Lister barn engine – which can be seen on the stand on the right adjacent wall.’
Heads turned. There were murmurs of appreciation. Failing to see why, Nell drifted back. She’d phoned Adele expecting motherly comforts and received none. Adele had muttered something about not being too hasty and no one knowing what the future might bring – and most surprisingly of all, when Nell had suggested a visit to Highcliffe the following Sunday, her mother had said that actually it wouldn’t – um – be all that convenient. Sod the lot of them, then, Nell had thought. She wasn’t going to have Ross Percival taking over her life. Not now. Not ever.
The barn engine failed to reach its reserve.
But Ross had changed. Subtly. He telephoned regularly, never mentioning the merger, chatting without threat, even making her laugh on a couple of occasions. Someone who made you laugh, she’d decided, was far more deadly than someone who made you angry. It was really most confusing.
‘Lot seventy-two,’ the auctioneer’s voice had a quiver of excitement. ‘A set of Savage Galloping Horses. Built in King’s Lynn in 1907, restoration almost completed, and an ownership history available. Who’ll start me at thirty?’
Nell felt her stomach contract. Her mouth was dry. Her heart threatened to punch its way through her silk shirt.
A stately-home arm was raised. Another from the rival faction followed suit. Then they were off. The bids rose in thousands, so rapidly that Nell had no idea what was happening.
‘Forty-two thousand to you, sir!’ the auctioneer bellowed and pointed. ‘Do I have forty-three? I have forty-four! Forty-five!’
‘I don’t think I can stand it.’ Jack Morland’s voice spoke from the row behind. ‘I wasn’t going to come.’
Nell turned her head so quickly that their cheeks almost brushed. ‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t. I’ve only seen the gallopers twice and I feel like I’m abandoning a baby. It must be doubly awful for you. How do you feel?’
Jack squeezed into a vacant seat behind her. ‘Almost as bad as the day my dog died.’
‘Forty-nine thousand!’ The auctioneer was going like the clappers. ‘Forty-nine thousand to you, sir! Ah, and fifty!’
Nell staggered to her feet. The leather trousers made it slightly less easy than she’d hoped. The auctioneer paused. ‘A bid this time, madam? Is that fifty-one?’
‘Er – no. Actually it’s sixty if you include the – um – organ. Er – Lot eighty-four as well.’
It was all she had. She couldn’t run the risk of entering the bidding at fifty-one thousand only to lose out to the stately homes. Maybe she should have gone in at fifty-five? Hadn’t Jack said that was the reserve price? Oh, what the hell – it was too late now.
In the ensuing silence all heads turned to stare at her. She heard Jack murmur something. The bidders from the stately homes muttered between themselves.
The auctioneer raised a quizzical eyebrow in the direction of Percy and Dennis. ‘Do you want to take a joint bid, gentlemen? Or would you prefer to sell separately?’
Percy and Dennis looked confused. Jack stood up, the legs of his chair grating across the dusty floorboards. ‘The Trust would be more than happy to accept joint bids. I think we said that on the preview day, actually.’
‘Possibly. No one tells me anything. I do wish this had been made clear.’ The auctioneer, thrown by Nell’s interruption, looked hopefully towards the rival bidders. ‘Is that what you want to make, sirs? An amalgamated bid?’
They didn’t.
‘And will the Trust be happy with a starting bid of sixty for both lots?’ The auctioneer looked again towards Percy and Dennis who in turn looked at Jack.
‘The Trust would be bloody delighted to make that a closing bid.’
‘Good-oh. Back to business. Any more bids? No. All done, then? At sixty? Sixty once. Sixty twice. Lots seventy-two and eighty-four sold jointly at sixty thousand pounds to the lady in row three!’
The bang of the gavel rang again through the rafters. Nell, who had sat down again, didn’t move. That was every penny in her personal account gone. There was no surer way of preventing Ross joining them. Bradleys could no longer afford him. Danny and Sam would possibly have her excommunicated.
‘Christ, I don’t believe it.’ Jack had leaned forward again, his breath minty and warm against her face. Nell could smell clean skin and soap and something else – petrol? ‘You’re an absolute angel. Your partners changed their minds, then?’
‘My partners know nothing about this.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Jack blinked. ‘You’ll be popular. What are you going to do with them? The gallopers, I mean?’
‘God knows,’ said Nell, who didn’t have a clue about either. ‘I didn’t think I’d have the gumption to bid – let alone be successful.’
‘Never mind.’ Jack was beaming in delight. ‘You did and you have. I can’t quite believe it.’
Neither could she. She stared at him over her shoulder. He was wearing black jeans and a vaguely paint-stained cotton sweater with unravelled cuffs. The ornate signet ring on his wedding finger was ingrained with flecks of blue and crimson. She remembered the partner who hadn’t seemed to share Jack’s interest. ‘Isn’t – er – Fiona with you?’
‘She’s at home laying on some hoolie to celebrate my permanent return to suburbia.’
He leaned forward some more. He definitely smelled faintly of petrol – and leather, or was that her? ‘I probably reek of bike,’ Jack said. ‘She’s spitting oil at the moment.’
‘Bike? You cycle?’
‘Christ, no. Motorbike. I’ve got an old Norton Commando Roadster.’
Knowing nothing about motorcycles, Nell tried to look impressed. ‘Is it – um – powerful?’
‘Very. Nearly thirty years, old. Nine hundred cc – goes like stink.’ He smiled happily. ‘Fiona detests it.’
Nell felt some sympathy for Fiona’s point of view.
‘Herumph!’ The auctioneer coughed loudly. ‘If the young lady who has just purchased Lots seventy-two and eighty-four would like to see the clerk regarding payment and delivery …’
God, Nell thought, collecting her scattered wits and unpeeling the leather trousers again. Delivery? To where?
Jack was on his feet and squeezing along his row. He motioned to Nell to follow him. The auctioneer sucked his teeth at the disruption and waited until they’d reached the edge before restarting his spiel.
‘Take your cheque to the guy on the desk,’ Jack said. ‘Then we’ll sort out transport.’
Nell nodded and looked at the half-finished Savage and the glorious Gavioli. They were what she’d wanted for as long as she could remember. The enormity of her act hit her with a wave of guilty panic.
She handed over the banker’s draft, feeling numb. The clerk stamped it, scribbled out a receipt, and handed Nell a sheaf of papers. ‘History. Test certificates. Bits and bobs. Let me know when you’ve organised your designated carrier.’
‘Diadem Transport, Upton Poges. I’ll get it sorted.’ Jack spoke to the clerk over Nell’s shoulder, then looked at her. ‘They’re an excellent firm. They brought the gallopers and organ up here from Cornwall. Once you’ve decided where they’re going I’ll make the arrangements. Shall we g
o and say hello to your children?’
The rival stately-home factions were packing up their briefcases and glowered at Nell with open hostility. Several neutral observers congratulated her. Dennis and Percy beamed. The rest of the Trust were watching the bidding for the showman’s traction engine.
Nell simply stared. The noise of the auction and the confines of the barn disappeared. She could see the colours swirl and dance as the gallopers rose and fell in stately waves, circling on green grass, two laughing riders on each horse, their hair flying in the summer breeze, their hands clasped tightly round the barley-sugar twisted rods. She could hear the deep resonance of the Gavioli playing Paree. She could see the ornately carved rounding boards and the words ‘Petronella Bradley’s Golden Galloping Horses’ inscribed in huge gilded letters.
She suppressed a shiver of pleasure. It didn’t matter what her family said. What Ross might do. This was what she had always wanted.
‘No second thoughts?’ Jack was smiling gently, as though he knew.
‘None. Absolutely none. God knows what I’m going to do with them – my brothers won’t give them houseroom on our gaffs. Still, I’m a Guild member, I can apply for sites. And I’m sure I’ll find hundreds of fairground enthusiasts simply dying to play with them.’ She knew she was clutching at straws. ‘However, that’s all in the future. Firstly I’ve got to find them a home.’
‘Your brothers are your partners?’ Jack was running his hands along an unpainted mane.
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re not married?’
Nell shook her head. ‘Why?’
‘It’ll just make it simpler if you haven’t got your husband’s branch of the Showmen’s Guild actively opposed to what you’re doing.’
Jack’s fingers were still stroking the wood lovingly. He was silent for a moment and she watched him, fascinated. She couldn’t explain to him. He was a flatty. Flatties always had these romantic notions about travellers. What did he know about the umbilical bonding of the Showmen’s Guild, anyway? It was lucky that he wasn’t aware of Danny’s temper, or Sam’s plans for hydraulic rides, or her mother’s insistence that their inheritance money should only be spent in dire emergencies. Or Ross Percival. Nell suddenly felt quite queasy.
Stealing the Show Page 11