Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

  ‘You’ll pay the going rate?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Lola made a mental note to discover exactly what that was before bankrupting herself. ‘Could you do, say, four hours, three evenings a week, to be arranged as I said when I see how things go, but definitely Friday and Saturday?’

  A smile split his face making him look about thirteen. ‘That would be ace! Thanks so much. I’ll see you on Wednesday, then, er, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Ms Wentworth. Lola.’

  ‘I’m Richard. Richard Dalgetty. Most people call me Ritchie.’

  They shook hands rather awkwardly because of the Marigolds and Lola watched fondly as he closed the door behind him. She’d hired and fired plenty of times at Marionette Biscuits, and always prided herself on making good staffing choices. After she’d put him through his paces Ritchie Dalgetty, she was sure, would turn out to be a superb barman.

  Knowing that she wouldn’t be able to make much impression on the remaining grime in the darkness, and also because she was starving, Lola peeled off the gloves, unfastened the towel and reached for her coat. Tomorrow she’d start bright and early, and when the various brewery deliveries arrived, she’d start stacking the shelves, and the cellar, and really get to work on transforming The Crooked Sixpence into a pub that Steeple Fritton and the surrounding area would be proud of.

  Locking the door behind her, Lola closed her eyes against the full spite of the spiky snowflakes as she slipped and slithered towards Sunny Dene in the darkness. As soon as possible she’d have to buy another car; Hogarth was paying her a satisfactory retaining salary, and profits – when any materialized – were to be shared. If all her moneymaking plans for the pub came to fruition, she might even be able to reverse the state of her ever-dwindling savings account. If everything went to plan, she might soon be able to replace the hatchback which she guessed still slumbered in the wheel clampers’ compound.

  She felt a tingle of warmth in her stomach – she’d always loved a challenge. And right now life, while nowhere near perfect, was definitely beginning to look a whole lot better.

  ‘You’re doing what?’ Posy’s voice spiralled above the rest of the dining room’s post-prandial conversation. ‘Are you completely mad?’

  Lola had been making traction engine small talk with Flynn Malone over coffee and had just started to tell him about The Crooked Sixpence. The traction engine didn’t interest her particularly, but Flynn’s voice would make anything sound alluring. He also seemed interested in what she was saying about the pub. It was nice to be having a proper grown-up conversation with someone.

  She frowned at the interruption. ‘Sorry? Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Of course I’m talking to you.’ Posy, who had been clearing the tables, was now glaring at them, balancing a dangerously-overloaded tray. ‘I heard what you said.’

  Lola shook her head. Apart from murmuring about the traction engine, she hadn’t said anything much at all, had she? Just about her ideas for the pub. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘How convenient.’ Posy sighed in exasperation. ‘Let me remind you, then. You were saying: one, that you’ll be introducing pub meals. And two, that you’ve hired bar staff.’

  To give him his due, Flynn studiously stirred the dregs of his coffee and said nothing.

  Lola frowned a bit more. ‘Yes, I am and yes, I have, so what on earth is wrong with that?’

  Posy’s curls danced around her head in fury. ‘What’s wrong with it? Jesus! You have no damn idea, have you? You are so bloody self-centred! We – Sunny Dene – are trying to drag in customers just to keep our heads above bloody water! We’ve spent weeks planning how to get people to come in here for meals and now you’re going to be offering a rival eating establishment not five minutes down the road! And – no, let me finish – and we – me Ellis, Flynn, even Dom when he’s home – need all the extra money we can get! If you wanted to employ bar staff why the hell didn’t you ask us first?’

  Sunny Dene’s dining room was silent. Mr B and Mr D gazed slack-jawed at Posy. Norrie and Dilys and the dogs did the same.

  Shaken by the vitriolic outburst, Lola exhaled, ‘I’m sorry, but if you’d bothered to speak to me then I may have known that our plans were clashing. As you’ve chosen to exclude me from practically all your conversations and never even manage to be civil to me when we’re alone, you’ll have to forgive me if I’m left unaware of your situation.’

  ‘Well,’ Posy swept away towards the kitchen, the tray wobbling even more dangerously as she glared over her shoulder, ‘you’re not left unaware of it now, are you?’

  No, she wasn’t. ‘I can see that perhaps we do have a conflict of interests here.’ Lola looked across the dining room towards Dilys. ‘Maybe we could have a chat about this, Mrs Nightingale. I mean, I don’t really want to step on anyone’s toes.’

  Dilys nodded, her orange curls bouncing in much the same fashion as Posy’s. ‘Yes, all right, dear. In half an hour? In the lounge? And I’m sorry about Posy. I’ve no idea what’s got into her lately.’

  Flynn put down his coffee cup and grinned across the table. ‘Sparks certainly fly between you two, don’t they? Oh, and if you’re looking for staff, my girlfriend back home, ex-girlfriend now, I guess, ran a bar called Opal Joe’s. I used to help her out and I spent six months working in my uncle’s bar in Tralee. I can throw a mean cocktail together and pour Guinness like a dream.’

  Pulling pints and wiping tables she might just manage to offer – but she had a feeling there wasn’t going to be a huge run on cocktails in The Crooked Sixpence. The Guinness experience might come in handy, though. Hogarth had mentioned that the Pinks were congenitally linked, not only to each other, but also to the Black Stuff; a reference which had at the time completely mystified her.

  Lola smiled weakly, ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Just over an hour later, after a very frank talk with Norrie and Dilys, Lola climbed the various sets of skewwhiff stairs to her room. She’d had no idea that Sunny Dene was in such a parlous financial state. It explained much of Posy’s outrage. She’d have felt exactly the same. If only she could tell Posy that she understood now, and that a satisfactory deal had been struck. But, she thought, unlocking her door, because she’d admitted to being a mistress Posy simply didn’t want to know.

  The photograph of Nigel beamed at her from the bedside table, and Lola picked it up, and as always, kissed him. ‘You don’t know what trouble you’ve caused me,’ she told him, holding him against her. ‘Oh, not just losing all the Swansbury stuff – you couldn’t help that. But even now, here, loving you is making my life so difficult . . .’ She sniffed back a tear. ‘Not that I regret a moment of it.’

  ‘Hey, sorry. Don’t want to intrude, but –’

  Lola jerked her head up from the photograph, and looked at Flynn Malone who was standing in the open doorway. Feeling irritated that this, her private time with Nigel, was being invaded, she sighed. ‘You’re not intruding, it’s my fault. If I’d wanted privacy I should have closed my door.’

  ‘If any of us had wanted privacy we should never have holed up in this place,’ Flynn grinned at her. ‘Is that a picture of your dad? I miss my parents too.’

  She winced. It had happened a lot while she and Nigel were together. People assuming that because of the age difference they couldn’t possibly be lovers. She felt no inclination to explain to Flynn or anyone else. ‘Yes, well being away from home turns you into a child again, doesn’t it? The unfamiliarity and everything. Um, did you want something?’

  ‘Apart from a bar job? Yeah, I did. I was sort of working round to it when Posy blew her stack downstairs. Ellis says that there are a lot of outbuildings at the back of the pub. I didn’t know if you would be using them or not, but I need somewhere for Queen Mab to live, and wondered if I could rent one of them from you?’

  ‘Sorry? Not quite with you. Queen Mab?’

  ‘My showman’s engine. She’s got to be moved from Fritton Mag
na as soon as the snow has thawed. She needs a home until I’ve worked out what I’m doing.’

  Why not? Lola thought wildly. She’d already got a pub she wasn’t sure she could run, a barman who had never done the job before in his life, and a sort of temporary home filled with misfits – why on earth not have a traction engine living in the shed?

  ‘I haven’t looked at the outbuildings very closely. I know one of them is used for storage and pub overspill, but if any of the others are suitable you’re more than welcome. Aren’t traction engines pretty huge, though?’

  ‘Massive,’ Flynn said happily. ‘But Ellis says The Crooked Sixpence’s outbuildings are as big as barns, so it should be perfect. Shall we go and take a look?’

  Lola nodded. ‘Yes, of course. I’m going to be in the pub early tomorrow morning for more cleaning, so we’ll investigate then.’

  ‘Tomorrow? That’s ages away. Why not now?’

  ‘Because it’s dark and freezing and probably snowing and we won’t be able to see anything and –’

  ‘No reason at all then. Come on, get your coat. I’ll be waiting downstairs.’

  He was. And looking, Lola thought from the safe distance of the last-but-one-landing, very film-starrish in a long black coat with the collar turned up. Who on earth did he remind her of? Oh, yes, of course . . . John Cusack. The layers of dark hair and those incredible feline eyes . . .

  Good Lord! She shook herself mentally. What on earth was the matter with her? Was she having a fit of rampaging hormones or something? About to descend into a second puberty? Only hours earlier she’d been thinking about getting a pair of jeans – it was probably high time she registered with the local doctor and reduced her HRT intake.

  Concentrating on her best Mistress of Marionette Biscuits facial expression, she arrived at the foot of the stairs looking, she hoped, far less ruffled than she felt. ‘I think we’re mad doing this at this time of night, and you’ll have to drive because I haven’t got a car.’

  ‘Drive?’ Flynn raised his eyebrows. ‘Who’s driving? It’s only a five minute walk.’

  ‘I’m not walking anywhere in this weather!’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Flynn threw open the front door. ‘You British are well known for enjoying a bracing walk. Come on . . . it’ll be great.’

  They stepped out of Sunny Dene and into Siberia. Lola’s breath was ripped from her lungs in an icy cloud. The wind whistled across the common and whipped spears of snow against her face while the ice tried to whisk her feet from under her.

  To prevent herself from falling, she grabbed Flynn’s arm in the darkness and then immediately let it go again. ‘This is awful! Can’t we do it tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was raised above the storm, ‘It’s fun. We need fun. Everyone needs fun.’

  She squinted up at him doubtfully. Fun, yes. Frostbite and hypothermia, no.

  Still staggering, they rounded the corner away from the B&B and the common, and headed towards the second, smaller green and The Crooked Sixpence. More sheltered from the wind, the snow now fell downwards rather than horizontally, dark feathery flakes illuminated by the orange pools of the intermittent streetlamps. Everywhere was silent, white, beautiful.

  ‘Wow,’ Flynn said softly, it’s just like a James Stewart movie.’

  Lola tried to see icebound Steeple Fritton through his eyes and failed miserably. Surely, in James Stewart movies, everyone had ruddy cheeks and smiles – not runny noses and welded-together lips? And weren’t there always Christmas trees and gaily wrapped parcels tucked under arms? And cheery neighbours shovelling snow?

  ‘James Stewart movies don’t usually take place in the back of beyond, in almost total darkness, without another living soul in sight and the sort of temperature guaranteed to kill within thirty seconds. And this is February in England, not Christmas Eve in Philadelphia, and –’

  ‘Use your imagination,’ Flynn grinned down at her. ‘We’re all in the same boat here.’

  ‘Which boat?’

  ‘The row-your-own variety. For various reasons we’ve all fetched up in this backwater. We’re away from roots and responsibilities, and from security and a steady income. All any of us have got is the future and our imaginations. I know nothing about you, but you must be here because something went wrong in the past. Same with Ellis. Posy, I guess, is a bit different, but even she’s starting over. And we’re all just going to have to make the best of it.’

  ‘Very philosophical,’ Lola muttered, slithering on the snow. ‘And, yes, okay, you’re right. Actually, I was thinking along much the same lines earlier. We’ve all been dealt a pretty weird hand with Steeple Fritton as the Joker. The pub might be a temporary respite for me, but what are the rest of you going to do? Oh, and don’t tell me that this damn stupid carnival idea is going to be the answer to everyone’s prayers, because that really would be James Stewart movie country.’

  He laughed. ‘No, the carnival may not solve all the problems, but it’s a hell of a happy thing to focus on. To work on. To plan for. Because, who knows, it might, just might, make a difference.’

  They’d reached The Crooked Sixpence and as they scrunched across the car park, even Lola, frozen as she was, had to admit it looked amazingly pretty under its dusting of white. The snow flurried round and round, changing colour as it eddied from the darkness into the light and back again. Blue shadows blurred any harsh edges and everywhere was as still and silent as a landscape painting.

  But only for a nanosecond.

  Round the corner, walking in Indian file, traipsed a raggle-taggle tribe of refugees. Dressed in layers of multicoloured fur and wearing peculiar ethnic headgear, moon boots and carrying torches, they varied in size from normal at the front to midget at the rear as they passed the pub beneath the streetlamp. And they were singing.

  Loudly.

  ‘Yummy, Yummy, Yummy’.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Flynn was open-mouthed.

  ‘Tatty Spry and her brood,’ Lola tried not to laugh, which was fairly easy as her lips were practically frozen together. ‘I had the dubious pleasure of sharing a bus trip with them once.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘They’re probably going to see Ellis.’

  ‘Why on earth would Ellis want to entertain half of Haight-Ashbury?’

  ‘Because,’ Lola blinked snowflakes from her eyelashes, ‘apparently Tatty and Ellis are romantically involved.’

  ‘No way! I thought Ellis and Posy were sorta close?’

  ‘Ellis and Posy?’ Lola shook her head quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t think that Posy is Ellis’s type. She’s far too young and, well, boyish, with all that motorcycling stuff and the way she dresses. They’re just friends, I gather. Ellis seems to prefer his women older and more feminine.’

  ‘Like you?’

  Despite the chill, Lola flushed angrily. ‘Not like me at all! Like Tatty, I mean. According to the Sunny Dene gossip, Ellis and Tatty Spry are a hot item. As you’ve just seen, she has umpteen dysfunctional kids, and, also according to Dilys and Norrie, she takes them with her on her romantic assignations because no one in the village is daft enough to baby-sit twice.’

  ‘My, my . . . This place is real fascinating, like living in a soap.’ Flynn was smiling and looking even more catlike than ever. ‘And judging by the way you’re shivering, maybe we ought to drop the speculation on Ellis’s love life and have a look at Queen Mab’s home before we turn to ice blocks.’

  Lola jangled the keys free from her pocket and picked her way carefully across the car park’s treacherous surface. She wished she’d had the foresight, like Tatty, to bring a torch.

  ‘They’re all round the back, down the side of the pub, we’ll have to just feel our way . . . ooops!’

  Flynn caught her elbow just as she slipped sideways on a hidden rut in the dark. She smiled her thanks, then moved away from him, feeling her way along the side wall of The Crooked Sixpence.

  ‘There, you can just about make out the sheds. The o
ne on the end should be big enough, shouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. It looks great. But there must be another way in. I mean, that little track is hardly wide enough for humans let alone Queen Mab, and we’ll never get her through this door.’

  ‘There’s a road at the back that joins the common and all the sheds have double doors on that side,’ Lola said, fiddling with the cold key in the frozen lock. ‘Hogarth said they used to be used for farm machinery years ago. But you’ll have to trust me on that. I’m not trudging round there in the darkness. We really should have done this in daylight.’

  ‘And missed Tatty Spry and the seven dwarfs? No way. Here, let me . . .’

  He managed to force the door open and peered inside. ‘Is there a light or something?’

  ‘No idea,’ Lola was chilled to the bone now. ‘I’ve only ever been into the smallest shed when Hogarth was telling me about the draymen delivering . . . Look, I’m sorry if you think I’m being a lightweight on this expedition, but I’m going back now. It’s too cold to hang about any longer.’

  With a click and a whoop of triumph, Flynn found the light switch. The cavernous shed was illuminated by harsh, flickering fluorescent tubes and looked even colder inside than out.

  ‘Ace,’ he said happily. ‘Just perfect. I’ll get Queen Mab installed in here just as soon as the snow thaws. You can take the rental fee out of my bartender’s wages.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, fine. Whatever . . . only please can you lock the door again because I’m really going home.’

  Home? To Sunny Dene? Sunny Dene was home? Lola gave a little groan of realization.

  Flynn, clearly misinterpreting the despair, looked at her with concern in the slanting eyes. ‘Jeeze, I’m sorry. You really are frozen and I’m being selfish. Look, let’s lock up now and go into the pub and have a brandy to celebrate the deal.’

  Coming in from the cold, The Crooked Sixpence actually felt cosy for the first time in living memory. Lola made yet a further mental note to replace the overhead lighting with wall lamps and to make sure the fire in the grate never went out, but even without ambient lighting and heat she was pleased at the difference her cleaning had made.