‘So the Emblings were definitely bringing charges, were they?’
Not allowed to disclose, the disinterested voice told her. And no, he couldn’t divulge anything further. No, he didn’t know where Terry was. If he didn’t report to a police station somewhere in the country by midday tomorrow, though, he’d be arrested.
And what had happened to everyone else?
The voice yawned and stretched. Mr and Mrs and Miss Embling – the parents and the abducted minor – Nell groaned into the phone – had gone home to Oakton to discuss things with the aforementioned minor’s social worker. Mr and Mrs Bradley had been extremely helpful – Nell groaned again. How had her parents become involved? Just in time she realised he meant Sam and Claudia. It sounded funny. As if they were a couple.
The policeman sounded as though he was scratching. Mr and Mrs Bradley had stood surety for Mr Freeman – Nell guessed this was Terry. She’d never known his surname – and all three had left together.
When?
Really couldn’t say. Some time before midnight.
Nell clicked off the phone. Great. So where were they now?
‘Ready?’ Ross appeared out of the darkness. ‘We’ve got everything sorted. There are a few dubious three-trailer loads, but the roads should be fairly quiet. We’ve decided that you can drive the Scammell – and with any luck, we should get it all done in one hit.’
‘Thanks. I’m very grateful – we would have been pretty stuck without you.’ Nell pushed her phone into her back pocket. ‘They’ve let Terry go.’
‘Good riddance. You won’t be seeing him again.’
‘Of course we will.’ She frowned at Ross in the darkness. ‘I mean, he didn’t know the girl was under age – and he didn’t keep her prisoner, did he? I expect she loved every minute of it. It seems mightily unfair to me if they press charges against him.’
‘I wouldn’t have him back – and I’m sure Danny won’t. You don’t want that sort of thing going on.’
Nell almost stamped her foot. ‘There can’t be a gaff lad in the country that hasn’t fallen into that trap. And we do have some responsibility for them.’
Ross laughed at her indignation. ‘Why? They come and go. He’d better not show his face round here when I’ve joined you.’ He touched her cheek briefly. ‘We mustn’t waste any more time anyway. We’ve got a fairish haul in front of us. We’ll talk about it tomorrow night at Blenheim. Did you know that the parents were coming?’
Nell knew. She didn’t think it was a particularly great idea. Especially not now. And even more especially if Sam and Claudia and Terry still hadn’t made an appearance. Anyway, no doubt Adele and Peter, Clem and Marcia, would be deciding her future. A future that involved Ross, a Percival merger, and a whole shooting match of white-knuckle rides. A future that was completely out of sync with someone who owned a set of gallopers and an eighty-nine-key organ.
She didn’t think Ross looked too delighted about the arrangement either. He yawned. ‘Oh well, see you at the other end, Freckle Face.’
The first loads jolted away in the moonlight, cheered on by the Henleyites waving their empty bottles and chicken drumsticks. Nell clambered into the cab of the Scammell and started the engine. With a stirring of anger, she noticed Danny and Ross ogling Nyree-Dawn and Mercedes, the eighteen-year-old Mackenzie twins, as they climbed into Claudia’s Shogun and her own Volvo. Dressed, as always identically, in frayed white shorts, knotted denim shirts, and Doc Martens, they displayed a great deal of sun-bronzed leg and cleavage.
Bloody dual standards, Nell thought, grinding the Scammell’s gears. Bloody men!
Nell stood in the middle of the deserted yard at Fox Hollow and felt sick. Nearly quarter past two. She didn’t think she’d had any sleep at all. They had managed to arrive at Woodstock and pull into a lay-by for what was left of the night without further incident, and had built up on the splendour of Blenheim Palace’s South Lawn as the church bells pealed across Bladon. Ross and the Percival gaff lad had left just before midday. There was still no sign of Claudia, Sam, or Terry. The mobiles were switched off. Danny was in a state of white-hot fury, which hadn’t been cooled by her own rather garbled excuses as to why she’d be missing for most of the afternoon.
Nell rolled back the doors of the shed. It housed the three Bradley rides over the winter, and was large enough to keep her purchases safe from prying eyes. There were power supplies, excellent lighting, and running water. Jack Morland should be able to get on with his painting without interruption.
At half past two the distant chug of large vehicles in low gear made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Her mouth was dry. Her hands shook. This was it.
The convoy of black-and-gold Diadem Transport lorries turned expertly into the yard. Three – no, four – artics and a smaller truck. Nell blinked. The Gavioli would be in the small wagon; one lorry for the horses; and one for the platforms and rounding boards and rods. So why –?
The cavalcade hissed to a neat halt, and Jack Morland, beaming from ear to ear, dropped from the cab of the leading lorry. ‘Sorry we’re late. I thought you might not be here.’
‘I nearly wasn’t,’ Nell swallowed, unable to believe that this was really happening. ‘The shed’s ready. Do you want a hand with unloading?’
Jack looked quite shocked at this suggestion for a second. ‘God, I forgot – you must do this all the time. We’ve come mob-handed, but the more the merrier.’ He was still grinning. ‘Brilliant, isn’t it?’
‘Unbelievable,’ Nell said faintly, watching Percy, Dennis, Harry, Fred, and the assorted Bobs and Jims and Bens of the Downland Trust piling from the vehicles. ‘I think I’m going to wake up in a minute.’
‘I didn’t sleep at all last night,’ Jack admitted. ‘It was like being a kid on Christmas Eve all over again. OK boys, let’s go!’
Diadem Transport’s drivers seemed to be keen to help as well. Nell was gratified to notice that two of them were female.
‘Georgia and Rory Faulkner,’ Jack introduced them briefly. ‘Just back from honeymoon, so we’re lucky to have them. Oh, and Jed, Barney, and Marie.’
Nell shook hands and said congratulations to Georgia and Rory, and thanks to everyone else, and tried to stop her head from spinning as the first parts of the disassembled gallopers were carried into the shed. She lifted with the rest of them, tears of joy prickling her eyelids, simply longing to stroke and touch, stop and admire.
It made sense to have the completed parts stacked at the furthest end, she said, and whatever Jack was still working on nearer all his painting paraphernalia at the front. Yes, and all the rods could be left wrapped in their tarpaulins so that the brass shouldn’t tarnish, and the organ? Where should that go?
‘By the nearest electricity supply?’ Jack suggested. ‘It’ll run off mains power as well as any other sort. That way we can play it to check that everything’s working. If there’s any tuning needed, Jim knows the right bloke for the job and we can have it all completed before we build up. I don’t think there was any damage in transporting it – we were really careful to bolt everything down, but it’d be as well to make sure.’
The Gavioli was manoeuvred gently into place. Nell twitched up a corner of its cover just to make sure it was really there. A couple of the Bobs and Bens grinned at her with understanding.
It took very little time, considering the delicate nature of the loads. Within an hour the shed was stacked with completed rounding boards, top centres, swifts, shields, folded tilts, rods, platforms, and thirty-six wooden horses, nostrils flaring, manes streaming, still galloping to nowhere.
‘I thought,’ Jack wiped the grubby sleeve of his cotton sweater across his forehead, ‘that we might rename the horses. They had names like Betty and Alice scrolled on their necks, which are traditional, of course, but it wouldn’t take me too long to do new ones.’
Nell pondered. They were hers now. She’d like them to be reborn. It was a nice idea. ‘I think they should have really old
-fashioned, important names. Like Vincent and Jemima, and Lexington and – oh – Cassandra –’ She stopped. ‘Or possibly not. Maybe shorter ones like Joe and Ned – as you’ve got to paint them.’
‘I’ve told you, it’s a labour of love. You choose whatever you want and let me know.’ Jack was looking round the shed. ‘We could build up in here, you know. When I’ve finished painting. A sort of trial run. There’s plenty of room. So – what did your brothers think about it in the end?’
‘I still haven’t told them.’ Nell had scoured The World’s Fair preservation section, petrified that details of the auction would have been printed, but it had been covered in a brief paragraph and no purchasers had been mentioned.
‘Where do they think you are today, then?’
‘God knows. Well, one of them wasn’t around actually.’ She smiled at him. ‘You know I told you about my sister-in-law last night when you phoned? Well –’
She didn’t know why she told him. It was just that he was so easy to talk to, and seemed to find the story interesting and either funny or shocking in all the right places.
‘What about you?’ she finished. ‘What did you tell Fiona about all this? She didn’t seem too keen on your hobby.’
‘She isn’t and I haven’t told her anything, either,’ Jack admitted with a cheerful grin. ‘She’s at my parents’ house waiting for me to return from a very pressing Sunday morning at work in time for an extremely late lunch.’
‘So we’re both being pretty devious about this, aren’t we?’
‘We are. And before you think that being devious is an integral part of my nature, I think you ought to have a look at something.’
The remainder of the Downland Trust stood back, all wearing huge, cheesy grins. Nell wrinkled her nose. What did they know that she didn’t? She followed Jack back into the yard, blinking again in the dazzle of the afternoon sun, and round to the rear of the last two Diadem lorries. Rory and Georgia Faulkner had dropped the legs ready for unloading and she peered inside.
‘Oh, God!’ She swung round on Jack. ‘There’s been some mistake! I didn’t buy them! They’re not mine – who on earth do they belong to?’
‘I bought them.’ Jack indicated to the Downland Trust that they could start unpacking the caterpillar and the ghost train. ‘As my contribution to Petronella Bradley’s Memory Lane Fair. They’re ready to go – they won’t need any work. I thought we could just sort of hang on to them until the gallopers were ready and then –’
‘Sell our souls for some Guild sites?’ It hardly seemed fair to plant obstacles in his path. He looked so delighted. And, of course, two more rides would be wonderful. But he didn’t understand. How could he? He was a flatty playing at being a traveller. He had no idea how it worked. You couldn’t just buy a ride and park it wherever you wanted. Still, they must have cost him a great deal of money. She certainly wouldn’t have been able to afford them for ages. She smiled. ‘They’re brilliant – and it’s a wicked idea. You’re very kind to think of it. Thank you.’
‘I think I should be thanking you. You were the one who saved my sanity by rescuing the gallopers –’
‘Yeah, well, when you’ve finished with the mutual self-congratulations,’ Rory Faulkner interrupted with a grin, ‘could you tell us just where these rides are supposed to go?’
Once the two newcomers had been installed in the depths of the shed, and the Diadem drivers had produced very welcome packs of ice-cold drinks, Nell drifted back into the shadows and lifted the tarpaulin that covered the Gavioli. She touched the proscenium. Nothing rocked. It was solidly in place on its temporary wooden pallet home. The cables were neatly rolled behind the drums. There were two heavy-duty ones, originally for the organ’s connection to a traction engine, but nowadays to be coupled up to a modern generator; and a single black one complete with plug.
She looked quickly over her shoulder. The Downland boys were sitting in the sun deep in conversation with the Diadem drivers. She knew she should simply thank everyone, close the doors, leave Fox Hollow, and beetle off back to Blenheim. But the temptation was far too strong.
‘The music books are in the cupboard,’ Jack Morland spoke softly, making her jump. ‘It might be a good idea to try her out – just to make sure there’s been no damage. And you did say you’d played an organ before, didn’t you?’
‘Not really. Well, my grandparents’ – but that was years ago. I was only a kid.’ Nell was tearing off the tarpaulin. ‘I’ve probably lost the knack by now. But there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?’
She uncoiled the cable and handed it to Jack to plug in, then, stepping carefully over the hump of tarpaulin, climbed the rickety wooden steps into the back of the organ. It was gloomy and dusty and smelled of sadness. How long had it stood unused and unloved? Nell stroked the unvarnished key frame. Not long now, she promised, and you’ll be out on the road again.
‘You OK?’ Jack’s voice echoed up from the front. ‘Do you want me to switch the power on yet?’
‘I’ll shout when I’m ready. I’m just – er – feeling my feet.’
What did she remember? The drums had to be tightened, she knew that. They had wing-nuts that secured the delicate skins and were always loosened during travelling. As a small child, her grandfather had always sent her squirming through the intricate figures to ‘fiddle wi’ the drums’. She grinned in delight. It was all coming back.
Leaning across the bosomy shepherdess and under the Harlequin’s raised arm, she screwed the bass drums and side drums and cymbals as tightly as possible, then slid back to the key frame.
‘I didn’t know if you had a preference for an opening number.’ Jack’s face was on a level with her knees. ‘I suppose it should really be “Entry of the Gladiators”, but I love this one and it was near the front –’
Nell took the cardboard book from him. ‘Oh, great. “Sabre Dance”. Yeah – that’s a real riding tune. Although when we’re on the road the first tune we play in public will have to be “Paree”. It’s traditional.’ She grinned. ‘OK, then – let’s find out the worst. Switch on.’
Jack disappeared again, and after a nail-biting few seconds the organ gave a massive, groaning, wheezing intake of breath as the air swelled into the bellows. The hundreds of lights glowed faintly, then grew in strength, until the darkness of the shed was illuminated like a grotto. Against them, the Gavioli’s muted paintwork glowed rich and jewel-bright.
Jack leaned into the back of the organ and gave her a rather shaky thumbs-up. So far, so good. She retaliated with crossed fingers as she placed ‘Sabre Dance’ on the shelf just below the key frame, lifted the lid, and slid the first perforated page of the cardboard concertina into place.
She understood the basics. Each perforation was a note, the score of the tune, and each perforation corresponded to a key. As the music book was fed automatically through the rubber rollers of the key frame it activated air-blown valves which in turn played the corresponding note. The eighty-nine keys – pipes, flutes, reed, piccolos, and drums – could imitate an entire orchestra and, if her memory of her grandparents’ organ was reliable, sounded at least twice as loud.
Her hands were clammy. Her mouth was dry. She’d dreamed of this for so long. Maybe it wasn’t quite the full culmination – God knows what she’d feel like when the Gavioli was actually playing in the centre of the gallopers – but it was close enough.
Jack smiled up at her encouragingly, his excitement tangible. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and snapped the keyboard shut.
Within seconds the shed, the yard, and all of Fox Hollow exploded with the full-toned blast of Khachaturian’s masterpiece. Nell, giddy with delight at her success, tapped her foot and felt the tears welling up again as the cardboard folds travelled smoothly beneath the key frame. It was wonderful. Simply wonderful. She didn’t dare look at Jack. She’d probably cry.
The three-foot-high figures along the front of the organ crackled with life. The moustachioed soldi
ers swung their arms with military precision, the shepherdess swayed, and Harlequin and Columbine bowed and curtseyed, as the music soared and roared, with not a note missed, not a flat to be heard. For all its years of inactivity, the Gavioli was perfect.
At last she dared to look down. Jack was shaking his head in silent amazement. The Downland Trust and the Diadem drivers had come in from the yard and were gaping. Nell had never felt such a high; such a surge of pure pleasure.
As the final notes died away everyone was silent. Shaking, she closed the key frame, picked up the music book, almost dropping it, and stumbled down the steps.
‘Bloody incredible.’ Jack’s expression matched her own. ‘Totally bloody incredible.’
Percy took ‘Sabre Dance’ from her clammy fingers, and the other Downland Trusters unplugged, uncoupled, and replaced the tarpaulin. Nell felt as though she was floating. The notes still reverberated inside her head; her body throbbed with the drumbeats.
‘I’m really sorry to be a pooper,’ Georgia Faulkner laughed. ‘And I must say that that was amazing. Beautiful. It might even persuade me away from Dinah Washington and Ella Fitzgerald and I can’t wait until you’re actually up and running. But if we don’t shift now, Jack will be paying us overtime. And this Sunday work has cost him an arm and a leg already.’
Reluctantly, they checked that everything was secure, switched off, tidy. Nell, left alone, took one last look round in the gloomy darkness before closing the doors. It wasn’t sad any longer. It was all merely waiting, as she was, to get out on the road.
The Diadem lorries were revving, eager to make the return journey to Upton Poges. Jack leaned down from his seat in the cab beside Rory Faulkner.
‘Enjoy yourself at Blenheim tonight,’ he grinned at her. ‘I hope your wanderers have returned. And thanks again – what are these?’
‘Keys to the yard and the shed.’ She handed the bunch up to him. ‘You’ll be able to let yourself in and out whenever you want to paint. I hope you enjoy the rest of the day with your parents. And I’ll come back as soon as I can.’
Stealing the Show Page 17