Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Sorry, love. No point. We runs a legal business here and we always checks out the ownership details against the DVLA’s computer. You don’t own the car and until Mr Nigel Marion comes to bail it out, then here it stays.’

  ‘He can’t. He’s dead.’ Tears burned her eyes. This was too terrible for words. ‘It’s my car. I’m the registered keeper. Look, I’ve got the documents . . .’

  ‘Keeper ain’t the same as the owner and we can only release to the owner. And if this guy has croaked, then tough tit . . . The car stays here until someone comes to prove they’re next of kin and therefore rightful owner, which I guess you ain’t.’

  ‘It’s my car! Mine!’

  ‘No it ain’t. Here, I’ve got yer bits and bobs out, we don’t want them.’ He yanked Lola’s retrieved luggage up on to the counter. ‘Sign for this lot and then bugger off. And when you can prove that you have a right to the car you can pay your dosh and drive it away. Until then, naff off!’

  Shaking with fury, Lola signed the form, grabbed her bags with difficulty, and stumbled from the Portakabin.

  Having staggered back across the uneven concrete loaded like a packhorse, she dumped the three suitcases and two cardboard boxes – everything she’d taken from the Swansbury flat – on the grey and weedy pavement outside the high-wire compound. What the hell was she going to do now?

  There was no way she could expect anyone from the Marion family to help her out. Barbara, when notified, would no doubt grab the hatchback to add to Nigel’s estate. Oh, why had she and Nigel never sorted things out legally? Why had he died before changing his will? Why had she not insisted that the things that mattered should be her responsibility?

  Of course she knew the answers. Because neither of them had expected Nigel to die and leave all the ends untied. Lola groaned in abject misery. If Cousin Mimi and her married girlfriends in Swansbury were right and being a mistress was a sin – then she was certainly being made to atone for it now.

  The late January afternoon was closing in. The grey skies seemed to have liquefied and melted over the tops of the tower blocks obscuring several floors. Shivering inside her silk and cashmere, Lola sat on the largest of the cardboard boxes, looked at the Daltons Weekly still tucked hopefully under her arm, and buried her head in her hands.

  ‘You going to Reading?’

  A truncated single-decker bus had thrummed to a halt alongside her. The woman behind the wheel was beaming.

  Lola looked up blankly. God knows how long she’d been sitting there lost in her desolation. She certainly hadn’t heard the bus arrive. ‘Oh, um, yes . . .’

  Well, why not? What did it matter where she went? Nothing mattered any more.

  ‘Get yerself and yer stuff on board then,’ the driver advised cheerfully. ‘Only this ain’t a recognized stop, but then again you don’t look like the usual passenger we gets around here.’

  Lola bumped and bundled the suitcases and boxes on to the bus, paid the fare to Reading and sat down heavily. There were only three other passengers, and they all regarded Lola with interest. She avoided their eyes. Probably they were all homicidal maniacs; she always seemed to attract them whenever she used public transport.

  The bus chuntered its way through both the Stirwells and out into the countryside. Lola, her eyes still averted, watched the dark scenery reflected in the windows and felt as though she’d now reached rock bottom. With no transport to add to no home and no job, and just the five hundred pounds she’d taken to bail out the car, and all her possessions in cardboard boxes, she might as well join Reading’s street people sooner rather than later.

  Two passengers got off the bus and three more got on. The route to Reading seemed lengthy and tortuous. Lola didn’t care. It was warm and she was in no hurry.

  ‘You wouldn’t be looking for somewhere to stay, I suppose?’ A voice spoke in her ear. ‘Only with all that baggage you look like you’re off somewhere nice. And I wondered, if you hadn’t arranged anything and you were going to Reading on spec, so to speak, you might like to come and stay with me.’

  Lola’s heart sank. One of the homicidal maniacs had swapped seats and was now sitting behind her. And it was getting really dark outside – and she’d have to strike up a conversation in case they turned nasty.

  ‘Oh, er, well, no, it’s very kind of you, but I’ve got all my plans made and people waiting for me and everything . . .’ Lola slowly turned her head and looked at the woman behind her. ‘Oh . . .’

  The passenger didn’t look like a homicidal maniac. In fact she looked cosy and cheerful and kind. But it was the riot of colour surrounding her that Lola noticed most. A halo of fat orange curls, orange lips and fingernails, rosy apples of rouge, bright green eyelids, and a hairy coat of rainbow shades.

  And a smile. A huge warm, welcoming, friendly smile, I’m not mad,’ the woman said briskly. ‘No, don’t deny it, that’s what you were thinking, dear, wasn’t it? I’m not a mind-reader, either. I could see it in your eyes. I’m Dilys Nightingale and I run a B&B in Steeple Fritton a couple of stops along the road, here –’ She fished into her handbag and produced a card. ‘I just wondered if you were looking for a place to stay.’

  Lola stared down at the proffered picture of an exquisite white gabled cottage, with various extended bits poking out at odd angles, and at the flowers in the garden, and the overhanging horse chestnut tree. A sign saying Sunny Dene was in the foreground and there were two dogs sitting by the gate.

  It looked like home. And she was tired and miserable and very, very lonely.

  ‘Well, I don’t have to go to Reading immediately. But it would only be for one night of course.’

  ‘Bless you. Whatever. I’ll get my daughter to rustle you up an evening meal when we get in.’

  ‘That’d be lovely,’ Lola said weakly. ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’

  ‘Good thing then, my blasted car packing up this morning, else I wouldn’t have been on this bus and we’d have missed each other.’ Dilys’s orange lips were smiling happily. ‘You look like you could do with a good meal and a decent night’s sleep. Had a bad day?’

  ‘The worst,’ Lola found herself returning the smile.

  ‘Man trouble, no doubt. Feel free to talk about it if you want to, otherwise don’t worry. I’m not nosy.’ Dilys settled back in her seat. ‘My daughter, Posy, has had more man trouble than you can shake a stick at. There’s nothing you can tell me about men that’ll shock me.’

  Lola nodded. She didn’t want to talk about anything with Dilys, especially about her daughter’s man trouble. She just wanted to eat and sleep and find something suitable in Daltons Weekly and run away. Again.

  The bus started to slow down and Dilys leaned forward again. ‘Here we are. Steeple Fritton. I’ll help you with your bags and stuff. Soon be home now, dear. Oh, and I’d better warn you, you may have a bit of bother with Trevor and Kenneth – mind they sleep in with Posy most nights, or sometimes they take it in turns. If you don’t want them in your bedroom just tell them to go. Posy’s quite happy to have them both.’

  Jesus Christ, Lola thought as she swayed to the front of the bus, I’ve just agreed to spend the night in a brothel.

  Chapter Six

  Posy slid her feet from the pegs, relaxing her grip on the motorbike’s handlebars. The never-ending sea of vehicles ahead had once more ground to a halt. Packed three-abreast, there wasn’t even a suitable gap into which she could swoop the BMW and head for freedom. Frustratingly, every set of Reading’s murky rush hour traffic lights seemed to be on red tonight.

  Another fruitless day, she thought, inching forward as the traffic in front of her stuttered towards the next obstacle. Nearly three weeks since she’d discovered just how bad business was at Sunny Dene, and still she’d managed to do nothing about it.

  She’d taken various casual temporary jobs which had lasted a matter of days and paid peanuts – but nothing the agencies offered her had been temp to perm – and
without that vital perm bit, any regular income so much needed to shore up the B&B, was out of the question.

  She’d had no idea that Sunny Dene was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, and had promised to find herself some outside work, quickly. She’d assured her parents that it would be all part of her new life – managing to bring in some extra money and still help out at the B&B.

  She’d be so exhausted each night that there’d be no time to dwell on her broken heart.

  And to make matters worse, Dom had left for university – which saved on food but made Sunny Dene seem even more deserted – and the new Mr and Mrs Ritchie Dalgetty were back from Paris and once again resident in Steeple Fritton.

  Irritably, Posy scuffed at the ground with the toe of her boot but fortunately, before her thoughts could once more travel the Ritchie-Sonia wax effigy path, the traffic queue began to totter from the town centre towards the ring road. Posy revved up, indicated right, confidently overtook all the four-wheeled vehicles, and roared away from the town.

  At least she could maintain a steady speed on the almost clear roads. There was a hint of snow on the brisk north wind in the gathering February dusk and she was starving, too. Another day at interviews for jobs she couldn’t do had meant there had been no time to eat, so it’d be great to get back to Sunny Dene.

  If only Ritchie and Sonia had tumbled from the top of the Eiffel Tower, life would be perfect.

  Posy sighed into the folds of her scarf as she swerved the BMW towards the linking villages of Lesser Fritton and Fritton Magna. Ritchie and Sonia were now joined at the hip in their Bunny Burrow starter home and had been seen in The Crooked Sixpence, as, apparently, had Ellis Blissit. Amanda and Nikki had been very good about keeping her updated. Their mobile phones had been on red alert for days.

  Actually, she quite fancied a visit to the pub tonight – just to be sociable, of course. Nothing at all to do with the fact that she might just bump into Ellis. Beautiful, black-haired and black-eyed he may be, but he was still a man, and she was never, ever going to have anything to do with men again . . .

  But, she had to admit, Ellis had livened up the village gossip no end. According to Glad and Rose Lusty and Vi Bickeridge, Ellis had left a trail of shattered hearts and paternity suits behind him. Holing him up in Steeple Fritton was supposed to have been a cure-all – but the affair with Tatty was, apparently, still raging.

  Ellis Blissit, Posy had decided, was no better than Ritchie. Faithless, sex-crazed, irresponsible . . .She laughed at herself. She was already starting to sound exactly like Dilys.

  She’d reached the B&B almost without realizing it, and freewheeled the motorbike into Sunny Dene’s garage. Lights spilled from the windows, making warm and welcome pathways through the chilly mist which rose from the common. It was such a pity, Posy thought, that Dilys and Norrie didn’t have the houseful of guests they deserved. Mr D and Mr B had become regular visitors, but Sunny Dene needed far, far more than that.

  Trevor and Kenneth scuttled across the flagged hallway as she opened the door, burrowing their noses into her pockets, sniffing out the chocolate drops which had quickly become a homecoming routine. She dropped her crash helmet and gloves on to the hallstand and ripped open the packet.

  ‘You spoil them,’ Norrie said, passing through the hallway towards the dining room, wearing a pinny and carrying a steaming vegetable dish.

  ‘And you don’t, I suppose?’ Posy grinned as the chocolate drop packet was emptied with the speed of light. She looked at the dish. ‘Oh, sod it, it was supposed to be my turn to cook dinner. I didn’t realize I was that late.’

  ‘We’ve got a lady in,’ Norrie lowered his voice. ‘Your mother found her on the bus. Man trouble, she reckons. She’ll tell you all about it. She’s in the kitchen changing a washer.’

  Posy’s spirits soared. Whoopee – another paying guest. Someone else to help with Sunny Dene’s financial burden. And possibly someone who could become a friend. And another one with man troubles. They could go to the pub and drink Tequila – well, not that The Crooked Sixpence stretched to anything as exotic as Tequila, of course, but maybe a Babycham or three – and get maudlin and drown each other’s sorrows.

  She practically skipped into the kitchen.

  Most of Dilys was out of sight beneath the sink. A workmanlike tool box was on the flagged floor beside her. Glorious scents wafted from the oven.

  ‘Hi,’ Posy addressed Dilys’s generous bum which was encased in some shiny stretchy fabric in rainbow stripes. ‘Sorry I’m late. Dad said you were in here. Problems?’

  Dilys extricated herself and sat on the floor looking up at Posy. The orange hair was on end and most of today’s eye shadow had melted into harsh creases. ‘Not really. Damn tap washer needed changing. Did that, then thought while I was at it I’d have a go at the U-bend. Saves on the plumber’s bills.’

  Posy leaned against the edge of the table. ‘And did you get the car sorted out this morning, too?’

  Dilys shook her head. Her face moved, her hair didn’t. ‘Never rains but it pours, eh? Bit of a bugger, the car. Beyond me. I can usually sort out most things mechanical. Don’t want to have to take it to the garage if I can help it.’

  Posy understood. The labour charge alone would probably break her parents’ fragile bank. It was why the whole family had learned to turn their hands to practically everything.

  ‘I’ll have a look if you like. I know it’s not the same as a bike engine but the principle is similar.’

  ‘Would you?’ Dilys scrambled to her feet. ‘What a star you are.’

  ‘Don’t say that yet. If you can’t sort it out I doubt if I can, but I’ll certainly have a go after dinner.’

  ‘Leave it till the weekend, dear. I won’t be needing it. I went into Reading on the bus and got all my bits and pieces.’ Dilys removed her rubber gloves and put the plumbing gubbins back in the tool box. ‘What about you, then? Had a good day?’

  ‘Not really. Three interviews for jobs that I’m hopelessly unqualified to do and don’t stand a dog’s chance of getting.’ Posy didn’t meet Dilys’s eyes. She knew that her mother was counting on some extra money very, very soon. ‘With all those mobile phone tekkies now out of work, there are more electronics whizz kids looking for lobs, any jobs, than ever.’

  The kitchen door opened and Norrie, flanked by Trevor and Kenneth, reached across the cooker and dumped an almost full plate and a gravy boat. ‘She’s not got much of an appetite. Only picked at her first course and hardly touched her casserole. Probably won’t want the rhubarb crumble.’

  Posy’s stomach rumbled. ‘Well, you know it won’t go to waste – anyway, who is she? Where did she come from? And more importantly, how long is she staying?’

  ‘God knows,’ Norrie raised his eyebrows to the non-existent hairline, extracted an individual rhubarb crumble from the cooker, and with Trevor and Kenneth dancing attendance, disappeared again.

  Dilys poured two cups of tea from the flowery teapot and handed one to Posy. ‘Her name’s Lola.’

  ‘And?’ Posy sipped the tea. ‘You’ve just made her sound like Lucrezia Borgia.’

  in my book Lola is a tart’s name, and she’s got all her worldly goods in a couple of suitcases and some cardboard boxes. Playing away, you mark my words, and her husband found out and, bingo, our Lola’s on her bike.’

  Posy spluttered with laughter. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘No, but you’re going to find out, dear, aren’t you? Get yourself into the dining room and have your meal and chat to her, then report back.’

  ‘Mum!’

  Dilys fluffed at her curls. ‘You find out what you can about young Lola, and I’ll tell you the latest on the Ellis Blissit and Tatty Spry affair.’

  Posy peeled herself away from the table. ‘Okay, done. The dining room was, of course, deserted except for the mysterious Lola. Posy, sitting in her usual seat by the window that looked out on to Sunny Dene’s back garden of stunted apple trees, lavender beds
, tumbled cottage garden borders, a half-hidden sundial and the full working model railway layout, picked up her knife and fork with a feeling of disappointment.

  Lola had chosen to sit in the far corner, with her back to the rest of the room. She hadn’t looked up when Posy came in, and had her head down, sipping her coffee with her shoulders hunched.

  Bobbed blonde hair – classy; red sweater – expensive; black trousers – also probably expensive. Posy sighed. Lola didn’t look like a Levis and T-shirt girl, then. And apart from rushing over and plonking herself down beside her and striking up an obviously unwanted conversation, Posy felt there wasn’t much else she could do.

  Loss of Brownie points with Dilys straight away, damn it. Not to mention no further info on Ellis and Tatty Spry. Bugger.

  She wolfed down the soup and then the casserole, without the help of Trevor and Kenneth who seemed to have abandoned the dining room tonight. They’d probably picked up Lola’s Greta Garbo vibes and decided to steer clear.

  Norrie came in with the rhubarb crumble and coffee, made comic gestures towards Lola, and receiving negative gestures back from Posy, disappeared again.

  Having scraped the last of the custard from the bowl, she collected her empties, pushed back her chair and walked across to Lola’s table.

  ‘Hi, I’m Posy . . . Oh!’

  The face that turned to look at her was high-cheekboned and very beautiful, but older than she’d imagined. It was also streaked with tears.

  ‘God, I’m sorry,’ Posy backed off. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. Excuse me . . .’

  Feeling awful, she rushed out of the dining room, shoved the dishes into the dishwasher and clattered up the myriad skewwhiff staircases to her room.

  It took her five minutes to pull off the interview trousers and neatish blouse she’d worn under her leather jacket, and pull on a pair of faded jeans and Dom’s second-best rugby shirt which he’d probably have missed by now, and leap down the stairs again.