Played!

by JL Merrow

  Tristan inclined his head graciously. “I bow to your superior knowledge in the area of pigeon shit. So where did you come into this barn story? Did they feel compelled to send out for reinforcements?”

  “Not exactly. Nah, I was just walking past—been doing a job for one of the neighbours. And I heard someone calling for help. Took me a while to realise it was coming from twenty feet up in the air.” Con smiled. “One of ’em had been a bit energetic chucking a bag out, and he’d knocked their ladder down and trapped ’em up there. So I put it back up for ’em, and Sean offered to buy me a pint to say thanks for the rescue.” He laughed. “Thought it might be to bribe me to keep quiet about it, but Sean’s all right about stuff like that. He doesn’t mind having a laugh at himself.”

  Tristan felt a surge of irrational jealousy. It must be nice to be so secure in oneself. “And did he also bestow upon you the traditional reward for a rescue?”

  “Do what?”

  “A kiss. Or, of course, any other sexual favours?”

  “What? No. Me and Sean have never been like that.” Con paused. “Not really my type, to be honest.”

  “Oh? What were your objections? He seems personable enough.” If you liked that kind of thing, although personally Tristan found the kind of thing he was looking at right now to be far more attractive. But he was curious as a cat to see what Con might say.

  Con shrugged. “Too…blokey, I s’pose.” He grinned suddenly, but went a tad pink with it. “And too, well, ginger. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, obviously.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: some of your best friends are ginger?”

  “Well, yeah. That’s what we’ve just been talking about. I just mean, I like blokes who are a bit… I dunno. It’s just a look you go for, innit?”

  “You prefer the traditional tall, dark and handsome?” Well, Tristan certainly did, so he could hardly fault Con for that.

  Con went even redder. “Well, dark, anyhow. And yeah, handsome, obviously.”

  Oh, that was very interesting. Tristan was about to make some remark congratulating Con on his lack of a height requirement when the man himself changed the subject somewhat abruptly.

  “What did you think of Robert?”

  Tristan blinked, then shrugged. “Well, from what little I saw of him, he seems to be a competent bowler.”

  Con was frowning again. “I meant…what do you reckon about him and Sean being together?”

  Tristan had thought they were rather sweet together, but decided, on reflection, that he didn’t want to sound like a thirteen-year-old girl by saying so. “They seem oddly compatible,” he said in the end.

  “Yeah,” Con said, his gaze appearing to focus somewhere just short of the wall. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “We probably ought to get on with the play.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Quick Bright Things

  Con’s emotions were in a bit of a tangle when he left Tristan’s house Wednesday night. It’d been a bloody good evening—they’d really got on with learning his part for the play, with Tristan showing him how to move and stuff. And it’d just seemed so easy to talk to him about other things too.

  There had been a bit of flirting, yeah, but Tristan hadn’t pushed it. Hadn’t done anything that made Con feel on the spot or uncomfortable. None of the touching or the outright propositions.

  If Con was really, really honest with himself, he’d sort of missed it. But this was better, really, wasn’t it?

  Yeah, course it was. Definitely.

  Con wished he knew if Tristan had been serious about them going to visit George Bernard Shaw’s house together. He’d said it was a date—but Con had had the feeling he wasn’t really thinking about it at the time. But, well, it’d be good, to do something like that with him. Con hadn’t honestly ever thought about going before—it was way too literary for someone like him—but with Tristan, it’d be fun. Con could see him now, flouncing around the house and grounds quoting stuff from the plays. And, well, Con knew some bits of Pygmalion, ’cos the Sham-Drams had done it last year, so he’d even be able to join in.

  It’d be… Fun. Even with them just going as mates. Which was all they were ever gonna be, obviously.

  Yeah. Mates.

  Mates was good. And, well, a mate would still miss Tristan when he left the country. So, yeah, it wasn’t surprising Con didn’t want to think about him going away.

  At all.

  Thursday morning, Con was due to meet Alf to go and visit Miss Wellbeck. He was on his way, and for the first time since last evening, not thinking about Tristan, when Con came out of the archway that led from his flat and bumped into the bloke. Almost literally.

  “Well met by—” Tristan glanced up at the sky. “Hmm. Rather indifferent sunlight, actually. I would say, fancy meeting you here, but seeing as we’re only three feet away from your bedroom as the sat-nav flies, it’s hardly the greatest surprise of the century. In fact,” he went on without even pausing for breath, “for all I know, you were gazing idly out of your window like Juliet upon her balcony, saw me coming and ran down to intercept me.”

  “No,” Con said a bit shortly, thrown a bit off track by meeting Tristan unexpectedly like that and worried he was going to make him late to meet Alf. Then he felt bad about it, probably ’cos Tristan’s smile had done an instant disappearing act. “You, um, going to the post office?” he asked, trying to sound apologetic.

  Tristan gave an exaggerated nod and held up a small parcel he’d had under his arm, somehow managing to make Con feel like the bloke had just laid on the sarcasm with a trowel and asked him how on earth he’d managed to work that one out, all without saying a word.

  Shit. They’d got on so well last night. Con opened his mouth to say he’d better be going before he could fuck things up even more, but Tristan beat him to it.

  “I’m sending a care parcel to Hong Kong,” he explained. “Well, an early birthday present. Well, I say early, but apparently these things travel by carrier snail, so it’ll probably be late by the time it gets there.” Now he sounded like he was apologising.

  All this was starting to do Con’s head in. And it must be getting on for time he met Alf. Con looked at his watch.

  “In a hurry, are we?” Tristan asked sharply. “Or simply tired of the present company?”

  “Nah, it’s just I’m s’posed to be meeting up with this bloke, and I don’t wanna be late.”

  “Anyone I know?” Tristan asked. His voice sounded a bit funny, but when Con looked at him, Tristan just looked normal. He must have imagined it.

  “Nah, shouldn’t think so. Name’s Alf. Alf Smith. He lives up on The Hill.”

  “Alf? How delightfully old-fashioned. And how did you meet this Alf?”

  Con shrugged. “Same way I met you. Did some work for him. Digging out a tree stump. He’s a good bloke—gave me dinner after. But I gotta go now. I’ll see you Saturday, yeah?” He jogged off, not quite hearing what Tristan said as he left. Probably something literary anyhow.

  Alf had insisted on meeting Con in the High Street—said he didn’t want to make Con go at his old pace, walking down from the Hill. He was sitting in the bus shelter when Con jogged down there, hands folded on top of his walking stick like he’d copied the pose from some old geezer in a cartoon. He’d dressed up posh, Con realised—Alf was wearing cream-coloured trousers with sharp creases down the front, a crisply ironed short-sleeved shirt with an open collar, and even a straw trilby. He looked pretty cool for an old guy.

  Con was glad he’d put a clean pair of jeans on, and a T-shirt without any holes. He still felt a bit underdressed, but at least he wasn’t a total scruff.

  “’Lo Alf—you’re looking good,” he said with a grin. Actually, now he was closer, the old guy seemed a bit nervous, so Con was glad he hadn’t gone as far as teasing him for putting o
n his pulling clothes.

  “Ah, excellent. Right on time.” Alf heaved himself to his feet and picked up a bunch of flowers wrapped around with newspaper Con hadn’t noticed lying next to him on the bench. “Come along, then. We mustn’t keep a lady waiting.”

  Con frowned. “Does she even know we’re coming?”

  “Ah. Well, no, I suppose she doesn’t, but we wouldn’t want to stray too close to lunchtime, would we? Wouldn’t want to inconvenience her.”

  It was half past ten. Still, Con wasn’t going to argue. Now they were almost there, he was pretty keen himself to hear what Miss Wellbeck might have to say about his grandad. “Course not,” he said, and reminded himself not to offer the old boy his arm as he shuffled slowly down the High Street.

  Maybe that worry about getting too close to lunchtime wasn’t so far off the mark, at that. The Six Elms flats were only about three hundred yards from the bus stop, but it seemed to take forever to get there at Alf’s pace.

  It was a pretty new development, with the buildings designed so they looked like something you might actually want to live in, not like the boxy 1960s block in Bedford where Gran had lived ever since Con could remember. There were communal gardens in front of the flats, with benches where the old folk could sit and look at the flowers—from what Con had heard, all the actual gardening was done by a service that was all part of the rent. Seemed a shame for any of the residents who actually liked gardening, but then, if they were that active and independent, they probably wouldn’t choose to live in sheltered flats in the first place.

  Mary Wellbeck’s flat was a first floor one, so Con reckoned she must be reasonably mobile, at least. Well, probably. There was a lift, though, so maybe not. Gran had had to walk up four flights of stairs to get to her flat, and when she got ill, that just meant she didn’t go out much.

  They didn’t have to ring the bell because an old lady who seemed to know Alf was just going out and let them in, so they walked up the stairs, which were so clean you could have eaten your dinner off them, to Miss Wellbeck’s front door.

  Well, Con walked. Alf sort of creaked. “Ready?” Con asked at last, fist raised to rap on the door.

  Alf held up a hand and took a few deep breaths. “Ready,” he wheezed, then thumped his chest and cleared his throat. “Ready,” he said again, sounding a lot more like it this time.

  Con knocked.

  There was a silence. “Maybe she’s out?” Con asked—but then the door opened and a face appeared, a bit lower down than Con was expecting.

  “Yes?” Miss Wellbeck asked with a friendly smile. She was a skinny old girl, straight backed and neatly dressed. Con could see Alf’s “pretty little thing” in her high cheekbones and big blue eyes, only slightly faded with age.

  Alf’s eyes misted as he smiled back at her. “Mary? Remember me? Alf Smith. Alfie. And this—you won’t believe it, but this young man is Con Izzard. Bill Izzard’s grandson, do you remember old Bill?”

  Miss Wellbeck’s smile wobbled, then disappeared altogether. Her face paled, and Con realised with alarm she was swaying a little.

  “Are you all right, Miss Wellbeck?” he asked, stepping forward in case he needed to catch her. “Want me to get anyone?” They had staff at these sort of places, didn’t they? Wardens or something? They’d know what to do—might even be used to her having a funny turn.

  She gripped the door frame with one tiny hand, the skin paper-thin over the finely shaped bones. “No—no, I’m quite all right. Just something of a… I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I can’t… I’m very sorry, but I can’t ask you in. So kind of you to come, but I’m afraid… So sorry.”

  She closed the door. Con stared at the blank, white-painted wood with its little spyhole for a moment, gobsmacked, then he turned to Alf.

  Alf didn’t just look gobsmacked. He looked like he’d brought Miss Wellbeck a kitten and she’d strangled it in front of him, the poor old bloke. He gazed down sadly at the flowers in his hand. “Seems a bit pointless taking them home, now. Would you put them down by the door for me?”

  “Yeah, course,” Con said quickly, taking the bunch and laying it just to one side of the door. They were sweet peas, and their cheerful, honey fragrance reminded him of stuff he used to buy Gran for Christmas—talcum powder and soap, all done up in straw-filled baskets so they’d look like a proper present. “She’ll probably like them when she’s feeling a bit better. Must have been a bit of a shock, us turning up like that. Tell you what, why don’t we go and get a cuppa in the café on the way back? My treat, yeah? Seeing as I’ve had all those meals on you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fond Fools

  “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Tristan had muttered sourly to Con’s departing back. And just who on God’s green earth was Alf? There had been no mention of any Alf at their previous meetings. Tristan was quite certain he should have remembered. Was this someone new? The name told him annoyingly little. Alf Smith might sound aggressively working-class, the sort of man who wore paint-splattered overalls and drank real ale, but he could just as easily turn out to be, say, Alfie Fortescue-Smythe, dropping the hyphenated name in a form of inverted snobbery.

  Then again, with all due respect to Con, the overalls and ale salt-of-the-earth type did seem more likely. After all, they’d have much more in common.

  Much more than, say, Con and Tristan. Damn it.

  Tristan realised he was crushing the parcel in his hands and smoothed out the brown paper hastily. It still looked rather ill-used, but luckily he’d had the foresight to buy Amanda one of those scarves that came pre-crumpled, in his lightning-fast visit to the department store in Bishops Langley this morning. And undoubtedly she would blame the Royal Mail rather than him in any case. Speaking of which… He glanced at the post office outside which he was currently standing. If he were to go inside, he’d be able to post his parcel and he’d be in an excellent position to see anyone Con brought back to his flat.

  But then again, if that had been the ultimate destination, why not meet there? No, they must be going to one of the village pubs…or perhaps a café? It was only ten-thirty in the morning. Not really drinking time. Barely even breakfast time, in Tristan’s days with the Players, but he’d been trying to accustom himself to the hours at which people with mundane jobs operated.

  And he was losing time and with it, any chance to set eyes upon the mysterious Alf. Tristan came to a decision.

  The view up the High Street was most inconveniently blocked by a large, old mill building that now housed various bijou establishments, several of which had the word “artisan” in the name, presumably to justify their outrageous prices. Lodging Amanda’s present firmly under his arm, Tristan crept up the path between the former mill and its adjacent mill stream that split off at right angles from the main river to rush merrily along, unhindered these days by any water wheel.

  Damn it. An enormous double buggy hove into view and halted on the footbridge over the river. It was turned side-on to allow its kicking occupants, their juvenile fists clasped around mangled slices of stale white cut-loaf, to view the water—or rather, its inhabitants. A vast number of freeloading ducks tended to congregate here during the day, clearly knowing which side their bread was, metaphorically speaking, buttered. On its own, the buggy would merely have meant a tight squeeze for Tristan to get past. Together with the large, leggings-clad rear end of the proud mother-of-two bent over her children’s heads to point out the “quack-quacks”, however, it proved an impassable obstacle.

  Tristan tried to seethe silently. “Excuse me,” he said with unctuous politeness. “Might I possibly get past?”

  “Oh, sorry, love. They won’t be a mo, though, will you, darlings?”

  Darling #1 responded with a frown and a shout of “Wack-wack!”

  Darling #2 made no reply, but managed to imbue the way it slowly tore off a corner of stale bread with subtle
menace.

  “I am in something of a hurry,” Tristan said with an ingratiating smile.

  “Well, I suppose I could move the buggy.” She started halfheartedly to manoeuvre the unwieldy object. Twin wails of dismay arose from childish throats, their owners convinced their quack-quack time was about to be cut unreasonably short. “Hush, you two. I’m just letting the man get past.”

  The latter remark was said with wilful disregard for its inherent lack of truth. “Perhaps if you left them, and merely removed yourself?” Tristan suggested desperately.

  Mother stood up straight, her hands on her ample hips. “Just what are you saying?”

  That you have a rear end the size of Covent Garden? Tristan had a sudden vision of himself flying over the railings of the bridge to be pecked to death by a feeding frenzy of quack-quacks. “Ah…simply that it would be a terrible shame to upset the young ones?”

  “Oh.” Grumbling, she nevertheless finally got out of the way.

  “Thank you so much,” Tristan said, his smile starting to make his cheeks ache as he squeezed betwixt wall and buggy, grazing his elbow on the former in his attempt to avoid any risk of contact with the latter. Mother would probably take it as some kind of slight to or even attack upon her little darlings if he so much as nudged the buggy. Justice would no doubt be both swift and draconian.

  Safely through, he emerged at last onto the upper section of the High Street—only to find that Con, by now, had gone, presumably taking the mysterious Alf with him. Still, there remained the village cafés, of which there were two, both of them on his way back home. Tristan could saunter past and cast a casual eye through the window of each. Yes, that would do. Not everyone, he flattered himself, could pull off an air of nonchalance like he could. He adjusted the parcel under his arm—