Mating the Llama

by Oliver, Marina

  Despite herself and her recent lunch she was tempted by the sandwiches, salmon and cucumber, the bread so thin it was difficult not to stuff a whole one in her mouth at once. No supermarket sliced bread here. She suspected it was home made too. The scones were light, not at all like the ones she had once made, trying to be domestic and create the ideal home for Karl.

  'I'm pleased to see you looking so much better,' Lucy said. 'We were really worried when we found you in the lane. Have the police caught those boys who ran you down?'

  'They know about the boys Alice overheard talking in the King's Head. But they can't prove it was they who knocked me over, or released that foreign animal from Mr Finlay's field. All I could tell them was that I heard a car behind me, and when I turned I saw it had no lights showing. I could not tell what sort of car it was even if I'd seen it in full daylight. I felt a bump and that is the last I knew.'

  Lucy was puzzled. Surely a bump hard enough to stun Miss Brown would have left a dent in the car. 'Have the police examined the car they were driving?'

  'Oh, yes, but they said there were so many dents in it any one of them might have been caused when they hit me. Or not. There were no convenient paint flakes on my clothing, or fibres from my clothes on the car. I'm afraid the writers of detective novels are not always right. Do have another scone.'

  She took one. Really, she would have to buy some new clothes if she carried on eating all this good country food.

  'Mrs Rogers tells me you are making some cakes for the fête. I'm so pleased you are joining in village affairs. The two branches of the WI get together for this.'

  'Well, I hope my sister will be helping me. I'm not a good cook.'

  'You will be, when you have had some practice. Now, my dear, I have a favour to ask you. I have not been able to shampoo my hair since I was in hospital, and it badly needs doing. Could you possibly help me? I'm rather afraid of tackling it myself in case I have a dizzy fit bending over the washbasin. I have an electric hand dryer upstairs.'

  How could she refuse? She made a bet with herself Miss Brown would not offer to pay her, and won the bet. The cakes were no doubt meant to compensate. She escaped as soon as she could and walked back home. So far she had one client. If word got round that she might oblige in exchange for a few sandwiches and cakes, she would be growing fat rather than rich.

  *

  It was time she acquired more clients. She sat at the kitchen table next morning to design some small posters to put up in shops and on the notice boards she'd seen around the village. Kate came down, yawning, and made them both some coffee.

  'What's that?'

  'Advertising. So far I have two clients, one paying and one freeloading. I have to get more if I'm to survive here.'

  Kate picked up one of the posters. 'I can do better than this on my computer.'

  Computers were a total mystery to Lucy. 'Can you? With pictures as well?'

  'Sure. And I'll go round and put them up for you, while you start on the cakes.'

  She wasn't sure this was a good deal. 'I told you my cooking's no good.'

  'You'll learn. And I think you should get the local papers to do a feature on you. A radio interview, maybe even a demonstration on local TV. I'll ring them, be your PR firm. What shall we call you? Lucylocks?'

  'Kate! Hang on, they won't be interested in someone like me.'

  'Don't you believe it. If I tell them, off the record, of course, how much Cuticurls charges, they'll be panting for an interview.'

  'And they'll get me to criticise my rival, and I'll be sued for libel, no doubt.'

  'Well, you'll have to be careful what you say, naturally.'

  'Kate, I saw how the press worked with Karl. They'd try all sorts of tricks to get one of the group to say something stupid, and then blow it up into a major row. You need to be a politician to know how to avoid such traps.'

  'Well, I know politicians are experts at talking a lot without saying anything, but local radio and newspapers are different from the nationals. They need copy. We found that out at college.'

  'No,' she said, trying to sound firm. It apparently worked as Kate shrugged and said she'd have to depend on posters then.

  She picked up one of Lucy's efforts and took it and her coffee upstairs. After a moment Lucy fetched one of the recipe books and began to look for the simplest. Kate had marked the ones she thought they ought to try when they were listing ingredients, but to Lucy they all looked fiendishly complicated. She had to make a start, though, so she dug out an apron she'd been given as a present by Karl's mother, and never worn, found her largest basin, and collected the ingredients. She'd start with pastry, jam tarts ought to be simple enough.

  She was elbows deep in flour and margarine when someone knocked on the kitchen door. She looked up. It was Flick.

  'Can I come in, or are you too busy?'

  She wiped her arm across her forehead. 'Come in, I'm ready for a break. This stuff just won't mix like it's supposed to.'

  'You need an electric mixer,' Flick said, doubtfully eyeing her efforts. 'That will do it in no time, and it'd be far less effort.'

  Kate had not suggested she buy one. She did vaguely know such things existed, but she'd never done enough cooking to need one, until now. She suspected Kate hadn't, either, or her bank balance would have been reduced even further.

  'Can't I just donate however much money my cakes would sell for?'

  'Lucy! Of course not! That's not what the fête is all about. All these village affairs, the bring and buy coffee mornings, jumble sales, the Christmas Fayre, and so on, are for people to bake cakes for one another, or get rid of junk on the bric-a-brac stalls, which whoever purchases it gives to the next jumble sale. I know for certain there's a hideous water colour the old Rector, Mr Brown, painted, that's been going the rounds for several years.'

  Lucy giggled. 'Why do people keep buying it if it's so dreadful?'

  'Miss Brown stands by whatever stall it's on, glaring, and no one dare leave it unsold. Some weak soul always buys it, knowing they can recycle it next time. That painting all by itself must have raised hundreds, if not thousands of pounds for whatever charities benefit.'

  'What's raised hundreds of pounds?' Kate asked, coming into the kitchen and waving some sheets of paper in front of Lucy's face. 'Hi, Flick. How's your father? I hope he's better.'

  'Yes, thanks. He'll be out of hospital in a couple of days, so I left Mum to cope. She's calmed down now.' Flick explained about the painting while Lucy looked at the posters Kate had done on the computer. They looked very professional. As well as the announcement of a new mobile hairdressing salon, and her telephone number, enclosed in an outline of a small van, there was a photo of her which Kate had taken the previous summer, a scattering of tiny drawings of scissors and hair dryers, and a picture of one of the elaborate eighteenth century concoctions – she couldn't call them styles – which were half a metre high, and decorated with bunches of flowers, birds, and even more unlikely ornaments.

  'Right, Lucy, how many shall I run off? I can do it in various sizes, as I suspect some of the shops will only take postcard sizes. Later I'll set up a website for you, with photographs of your customers. How are you getting on with the cakes?'

  'You need an electric mixer,' Flick said. 'There's an old one at the farm, I'll lend you that. It still works, but we don't use it as Mrs Thomas needed a larger one.'

  She was not going to be allowed to escape. She thought wistfully that if Kate's posters brought her lots of clients she would have the excuse of being too busy. Somehow she knew that wouldn't happen.

  *

  Chapter 9

  Lucy and Kate managed to produce a dozen acceptable cakes by the time of the fête. They had half a freezer full of the real disasters, which Kate airily promised to take as her packed lunches when she started work. The ones they decided had to do were a bit lopsided, the edges of some were darker than they ought to have been – Lucy refused to admit they were burnt – and the sponge was
rather heavier than any she'd eaten in the past. Kate busied herself with icing and cream fillings, which did a lot to disguise the inadequacies.

  Lucy prayed for rain, but apart from a welcome breeze Saturday was a glorious midsummer day, not a cloud in the sky, and there was no escape. They'd promised to be there by ten, to set up the stall, ready for the grand opening ceremony at two, so they walked down with their offerings.

  Why it should take four hours to put a few cakes out on a trestle table, Lucy could not imagine. She soon found out. Miss Brown and Mrs Rogers were facing one another across the table when they arrived, while various members of the two WIs stood around with baskets and shopping trolleys, looking on.

  'We always have proper linen tablecloths,' Miss Brown said. 'It's so common to use this flimsy paper stuff.'

  'It may be common, but it saves an awful lot of trouble.'

  'No amount of trouble is too great when we are working for the good of the community. I have brought the tablecloths and I insist they are used.'

  'You will launder them afterwards then?'

  Miss Brown gave her a condescending smile. 'Of course.'

  Lucy watched as two of Miss Brown's acolytes helped her spread out the tablecloths, and then the ladies standing around began to put their offerings on the table. After some polite disagreements about the best way to display them, and some jockeying to get their own cakes to the fore, the ladies had the table covered to their satisfaction. Miss Brown turned away to organise storage of spare cakes on another table behind, and at that minute a strong gust of wind caught the long loose edges of the tablecloth at the front of the trestle and blew it across the display. One of the ladies standing nearby reached out to catch it, lost her footing, and collapsed on top of the trestle, which promptly gave way and deposited her and the cakes on the ground.

  There was a collective gasp of dismay, and through it Lucy heard Mrs Rogers' voice.

  'We always pin the paper down, but of course Miss Brown would not allow that on her linen tablecloths.'

  Flick was with Lucy and Kate, and she grabbed their arms. 'Come on, let's get out before blood is spilt!'

  Trying to stifle their giggles they pretended it was nothing to do with them, and walked away. Behind the tea tent, a large marquee, the three girls burst into helpless laughter.

  'We really shouldn't,' Lucy said, when she could catch her breath. 'Poor Miss Brown!'

  'They'll salvage enough to put on show,' Flick said. 'If any are too squashed I expect they'll hand them over to the tea ladies. But for at least six months, until the Christmas Fayre, it will be war between the two branches.'

  There really didn't seem much more to do, so they wandered across to the King's Head and found a table in the garden behind it. Lucy breathed in the scent of wallflowers and honeysuckle. Country life was growing on her.

  They lazed there, drinking wine, and eventually ordering traditional Ploughman's lunches, before going back to the fête. Flick said she had to help her brother and disappeared. Kate, who had volunteered to serve teas, vanished into the tea tent. Mrs Rogers saw Lucy and asked if she was doing anything for the next hour.

  'We need someone on the cake stall. Alice has taken her aunt home, she says she has palpitations, and she has the only list of who is on duty when, so I'm trying to make sure it's manned all the time. Judy will help you, show you the ropes, and I'll find someone to relieve you as soon as I can.'

  Judy was a pleasant, homely farmer's wife Lucy hadn't met before, but she had everything organised, the cakes priced, a box with a cash float, and a couple of folding stools for them to sit on.

  The cakes did not look too battered.

  'No, only a couple were squashed beyond hope,' Judy said. 'That was where Dorothy sat on them when she fell over. But she bought them, said she could use them somehow. She has five kids, and I don't suppose they bother about the looks if they get some extra cake.'

  Just then there was a burst of music over the loud speaker system, and when it stopped the Rector welcomed everyone, and asked Lady someone, Lucy didn't catch her name, but she gathered she was one of the local aristocracy, to declare the fête open.

  The small platform was on the far side of the field, and had people crowding round it, so there was nothing for them to see, but they could hear. After a short speech saying how she knew they were all going to spend generously, and enjoy themselves, she cut the ribbon, or whatever they did to open fêtes, and the Rector took the mike again.

  'There's plenty to buy, lots of games of skill, the usual pony and donkey rides, and, new this year, courtesy of Mr Finlay, llama rides for the children.'

  There was a big cheer, and within minutes the cake stall was surrounded. Lucy was kept busy taking money, and they were soon putting the reserve cakes on display.

  'Is it always like this?' she gasped in a momentary lull.

  'Cake stalls are always popular,' Judy said. 'There'd be riots in every village if the EU tried to ban them on silly health and safety grounds.'

  'How could they?' She didn't keep up much with European Union affairs, except when the newspapers and TV were ranting about something so loudly she couldn't avoid taking notice.

  'Oh, those bureaucrats who've never baked a cake in their lives tried to say food cooked at home can't be sold, as it wasn't produced in sterile, hygienic conditions and might have nuts in it, and other objections, and they tried to stop it. It's a lot healthier than some of the mass-produced food with loads of additives and preservatives. Have you ever read the ingredients listed on shop cakes? A lot are just numbers, and no one has a clue what they mean.'

  'I see,' Lucy murmured. Judy clearly felt strongly about this. She believed all farmers had grudges about the EU, but she didn't want to hear the details, so she changed the subject.

  'Where do they have the pony rides?'

  'The other end of the field, behind the kiddies' playground. Do you fancy a ride on a llama? That should be popular.'

  She shuddered, imagining Rosa's expression if she tried to get on her back.

  'Adults are too heavy. Doc told me that when they are used for trekking, they just carry the equipment, and if they think they are overloaded they sit down and refuse to move.'

  'You know Doc well?' Judy asked, and Lucy could feel herself blushing. 'He's a very good-looking man. Quite well off, too. It's a wonder he hasn't been snatched up before now. Most girls round about would leap at the chance.'

  'He's my neighbour,' she managed, wondering for the fiftieth time why he had not been ensnared by any of the many girls who would no doubt have tried. Until Alice came along, she reminded herself, and just in time suppressed a sigh. She didn't want Judy to guess that she would snare him if she could, but she rated her chances against Alice at nil.

  'You went away with him, I heard?'

  How did villagers get to know everything that happened?

  She tried to laugh nonchalantly. 'I stood in for Flick when Doc took Rosa to be mated. Did you hear about that?'

  Judy laughed. 'Yes, Alice told me all about it. She thought it was funny.'

  Had Alice been bothered by her going with Doc? Why hadn't he asked her? Was it because she couldn't have time off work? Lucy knew she wasn't much competition, but was Alice so sure of him she could look on his spending a few days with another girl with complacency? Probably. Lucy told herself not to be silly, dreaming of an unattainable man. But as soon as she was released from her duty on the cake stall she intended to go and watch Doc. She could pretend she was watching Rosa giving her rides, and no one would think anything odd about that. Would they?

  *

  There was plenty of noise in the field, stallholders calling out their wares, various games of skill and chance going on, and the music from a group of Morris dancers. Lucy was heading towards the back of the field with the rides when Flick saw her and dragged her to watch the dancers.

  'This will be a hoot,' she said, trying not to giggle. 'It's Cas's first public performance, and I've bet him te
n quid he misses his step.'

  Doc? A Morris dancer? This she had to see. 'I thought he was looking after Rosa?' she said.

  'One of the farm hands is there.'

  There was just one musician, tuning up. He was holding a sort of pipe with one hand, and had a large drum slung from his shoulder, beating it with the other hand.

  'Sometimes they have a fiddle, and in some places a whole brass band,' Flick explained, 'but I think this is more traditional. I prefer it.'

  The dancers were in place, and it was quite a catchy tune. It reminded Lucy of the old songs she had been forced to learn at school, not at all like Karl's music.

  Doc looked handsome and macho in his outfit, not at all sheepish or effete, and when they started dancing and she realised how energetic they had to be, leaping all over the place, Lucy knew they had to be fit.

  They were just starting the second set of dances when there was a yell from behind. She turned round, and saw two donkeys and Rosa coming towards them. The donkeys were being ridden by two youths dressed up in cowboy hats and waving riding crops, shouting encouragement to a young lad who was running alongside Rosa, clinging to her halter. Behind them Lucy could see a small pony rearing and twisting, doing its best to dislodge a girl who was clinging desperately to its mane.

  The Morris men scattered, the musician fell onto his drum, and the audience retreated as fast as they could behind the various stalls. Doc leaped for Rosa, and grabbed her halter, bringing her to a stop, but the donkeys swerved aside as some of the other men tried to catch them, and galloped into the tea tent, from which came terrified screams and the clatter of overturned chairs and tables mingling with the smashing of crockery.

  Flick giggled. 'Oh, dear,' she managed. 'The dreadful Thorpe twins creating mayhem again. They were terrors a few years ago, but I thought, now they're going to college, they'd calmed down. But what is Alex Delaney doing with Rosa? Kevin was supposed to be looking after her.'