Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look at that bike over there! A Norton 900 Roadster! Must be well over thirty years old. A real classic. Goes like stink! Someone here’s got good taste.’

  She stroked the black motorbike lovingly as she passed, then rang the bell in the huge double doors. There was no sign of life; no other vehicle except the Norton; no noise at all. It would be pretty galling to have to return the parcel undelivered to Ellis. She was only paid on completed deliveries and every penny counted towards the survival of Sunny Dene.

  Flynn leaned across and took the parcel from her. ‘Let me. It’s pretty heavy, and no, I’m not insulting you by suggesting that it’s too heavy, just being practical. Try ringing the bell again.’

  She did. Still nothing.

  ‘A bit of a wild goose chase,’ she said. ‘Sod it. We’ll have to take it back to Ellis as undelivered. What a waste of time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Flynn said cheerfully, it’s been worth it just to ride shotgun with you.’

  She beamed even more. He couldn’t have said anything nicer. She rang the bell for a third time. There was still nothing but bird song and the distant swish of traffic on the bypass.

  ‘Oh, let’s give this up as a bad job. This place is so spooky, it’s beginning to give me the heebie-jeebies. No, hang on, I think I can hear footsteps inside. Yes, I think someone’s coming. Let’s hope it’s not some axe murderer or a drugs baron or a – oh!’

  Chapter Twenty

  Posy jumped as one of the double doors suddenly opened, and she found herself face to face with an extremely attractive man wearing paint-streaked black jeans and an unravelling cotton sweater.

  ‘Hi,’ he raised his eyebrows, both of which were also paint-streaked. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We’ve got a parcel for Bradley-Morland. Are you him?’

  ‘I’m half of them, yes. Jack Morland.’ He looked at the package in Flynn’s hands. ‘Oh, great. I think that must be the Crazy Gang medley. Would you mind bringing it inside, please? My hands are a bit, um . . .’

  They all looked at his hands which were wet with streaks of cobalt and crimson lake.

  ‘Sure. No sweat,’ Flynn said, following Jack Morland through the doors. ‘Are you an artist?’

  ‘Sort of. Look, if you could put the parcel down there, would you mind if I just washed my hands before I sign for it.’ He vanished into a tiny kitchen to the left of the doors.

  Posy looked at Flynn in the gloom. ‘Funny sort of factory. There’s no one else here. Still, maybe if he’s an artist, it’s a studio.’

  ‘It’s pretty dark for a studio,’ Flynn was peering into the cavernous recesses of the building. ‘I thought artists needed oceans of natural light and stuff. And what’s with the Crazy Gang?’

  ‘Search me,’ Posy shrugged. ‘Wimbledon football team are called the Crazy Gang and there was an old music hall act years ago, but I don’t think . . . oh, hi again . . .’

  Jack Morland reappeared, wiping his hands in a piece of paint-soaked rag which Posy thought probably made the hand washing superfluous. ‘You’re a motorcycle courier, are you?’

  Posy nodded. ‘We spotted the Roadster outside. Nice bike.’

  ‘Thanks. I love it. What’ve you got?’

  ‘BMW 1200 Tourer.’

  ‘Wow, shit off a shovel.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Posy laughed. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘What for?’ Jack Morland raised his multicoloured eyebrows.

  ‘For not assuming that the bike was Flynn’s and that I was the pillion passenger.’

  Jack laughed. ‘Oh, I never make assumptions about gender roles. Not any more. Now, do you want me to check the parcel before I sign?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Posy said, ‘It makes it easier if it’s been damaged or isn’t what you’ve ordered. I can take it back straight away.’

  Inside its box, the package was securely wrapped in thick paper and an awful lot of industrial brown tape, then bubble wrap, and still more tape.

  ‘It’s a bit like pass the parcel at kid’s parties, isn’t it?’ Jack Morland grinned, ripping through the layers. ‘Ah, I think we’re getting somewhere. Oh, yeah. Look at this . . . Wonderful.’

  Posy stared in total incomprehension as the contents of the package were revealed. A cardboard oblong, almost as thick as it was long, with two end covers in dark red card and concertina’d ochre-coloured heavy-duty paper in between, hardly seemed worth getting that excited about.

  However, Jack was still looking at it as if it were the Holy Grail.

  ‘Nell will be so pleased we’ve got this. We’ve wanted it for ages and had to have it cut in Belgium specially and flown over. It looks fine. Right, where do I sign?’

  Posy produced the triplicate book, still having no idea what she’d delivered.

  ‘Is it a music book?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Posy grinned at him, then looked at Jack. ‘Foreigners! What do they know?’

  ‘Actually, yes it is,’ Jack said, looking at Flynn with interest. ‘If you recognized it, you must know about –’

  ‘Just a bit. . . Have you got an organ?’

  Posy frowned. It was all as clear as jabberwocky. And wasn’t it all a bit personal to be discussing organs with a complete stranger? Americans were brash and upfront, of course, but even so . . .

  Jack was nodding enthusiastically. ‘Two. A Gavioli on our gallopers and we’ve just bought a Limonaire at auction.’

  ‘No way! You’ve got a carousel?’ Flynn’s voice had taken on an awed tone. Like he was in church or in the presence of royalty. ‘And two organs? Right here in this shed?’

  ‘Yeah, most of our stuff is here. I’m doing a bit of renovation on the Gavioli before we go out for the season, hence the paint. The Limonaire is perfect. Didn’t need anything except a bit of fine-tuning . .. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got a showman’s engine. A Fowler Super Lion. Queen Mab.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘You lucky bastard! My God! We’ve been on the hunt for one of those for the last three years.’

  ‘I keep Queen Mab in Steeple Fritton, in Berkshire. I don’t know if you’d know it.’

  ‘Know it? I used to live in Newbury. Steeple Fritton is right on my old doorstep.’

  ‘Great, then, you’ll have to come over and visit. And so Bradley-Morland is a steam preservation company, is it?’

  Jack laughed. ‘Bradley-Morland is a funfair. A traditional fair, as they used to be, with rides that are all at least fifty years old. We’re The Bradley-Morland Memory Lane Fair.’

  ‘Holy shit!’

  Posy decided this had gone on long enough. ‘Could someone tell me what this mutual admiration society is all about? I got lost somewhere around “organ”.’

  Jack and Flynn, talking together, eventually managed to explain.

  What she’d delivered, it transpired, was a specially cut paper music book which, when the concertina’d card sheets fed through the keyframe of an organ, played tunes. This Crazy Gang one, as she’d suspected, was a selection of Flanagan and Allen’s Greatest Hits. The organ, they explained, was the huge ornate music-maker in the middle of roundabouts, galloping horses, carousels? Get the picture? The Bradley-Morland Memory Lane Fair was a touring funfair offering nostalgia and feel-good entertainment. Flynn, he said, had just walked into Seventh Heaven.

  ‘Phew . . .’ Posy did a mock brow-wipe when they’d finished. ‘Very comprehensive, and amazing. Do you mean, you’ve got a fairground in here?’

  ‘Some of it.’ Jack nodded. ‘Not built up, naturally. These are our winter quarters. We’re just about to hit the road for the season. Would you like to take a look?’

  Flynn, matching strides with Jack, was away practically before the invitation had even been offered.

  Posy, following more slowly behind them, was mulling over a fairly spectacular plan . . .

  ‘Could we book you for our carnival?’

  Jack stopped wal
king and looked over his shoulder. ‘Yes, of course. As long as we’re not already booked somewhere else. When is it? And where?’

  ‘Steeple Fritton. June 10th. It’d be the cherry on top of the icing to have a proper old-time fair . . . I can just see it . . . On the biggest part of the common, all traditional, just what we need to bring the crowds in, and if it’s a success we can do it every year.’

  ‘I’ll need to check with Nell,’ Jack’s eyes softened. ‘My partner. She keeps all the dates. She’s out scouting for new grounds at the moment. I’ll give her a ring and go and check the diary in the kitchen at the same time. Hang on . . .’

  Posy hung. Just. Now she’d had the idea her impatience to make it reality knew no bounds. A real old traditional fair for the carnival! On Steeple Fritton common! She almost jigged on the spot with ill-controlled eagerness.

  As Jack wandered back towards the kitchen, punching out numbers on his mobile phone as he went, Flynn who had reluctantly stopped walking when Jack did, grinned at Posy.

  ‘That’d be a really neat thing to do. An old-fashioned carnie, er, funfair would sure bring in the crowds. And you know what you said about me having Queen Mab outside The Crooked Sixpence at night, in full steam, and we said it needed music but –’

  Posy almost clapped her hands and jumped up and down with excitement. ‘Flynn! That was it!’ Her words almost tripped over themselves in her enthusiasm. ‘Remember, I said I knew what we needed but I didn’t know where to find it? It was a fairground organ! That’s what Googly Harris used to have at The Crooked Sixpence when he owned Queen Mab when I was a kid. It played all the old tunes, really belted them out, and everyone danced. Oh, and it was great, until of course Hogarth put a stop to it because it was fun.’

  Flynn’s eyes were gleaming with shared enthusiasm. ‘And Jack says they’ve got a second organ here, so, if they have the fair on the common, we can have the traction engine and the other organ outside the pub and –’

  Posy closed her eyes and prayed that Jack’s partner, Nell, would say that The Memory Lane Fair was free for the carnival day. Oh, she could see it all: the colours, the roundabout horses going round and round and up and down, hordes of visitors pouring on and off the rides, the noise, the hullabaloo, everyone having the time of their lives letting off steam . . .

  She opened her eyes. ‘Ohmigod! Of course! The theme thing we needed to pull all this together and put Steeple Fritton well and truly on the map. We can call it Letting Off Steam!’

  Flynn nodded slowly. ‘Right, yeah, great idea. That’d tie in with everything we’ve got in place so far. . . Letting Off Steam . . .’

  Posy clutched at his arm. ‘Everyone will come to Steeple Fritton to do just that. It’ll be Letting Off Steam Day, and the village can be advertised as the Letting Off Steam Village. With Queen Mab and the model railway, and Lola’s karaoke in the pub, and all the stuff that Tatty and Rose and everyone has got lined up, it’ll bring people in all the time. And those who want to stay over will use Sunny Dene, not just for the carnival day, which will be the culmination, of course, but –’

  ‘All the time,’ Flynn finished for her. ‘We’ll get posters and things done. Come to Steeple Fritton to Let Off Steam! Posy Nightingale you’re a genius! I could kiss you.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  They stared at one another.

  Posy’s fingers were still embedded into the soft leather sleeve of Flynn’s jacket. He covered her hand with his, moving his thumb slowly across the back of her fingers.

  He exhaled. ‘Are you sure about this? What about Ritchie?’

  ‘Ritchie is married to Sonia.’ Posy’s voice was husky. She really couldn’t tell Flynn that Ritchie had never, ever, in all their years together, made her feel like Flynn was making her feel now. ‘Ritchie simply doesn’t figure in my life any more. Unlike Vanessa . . .’

  ‘History, as I said earlier.’

  ‘Good news,’ Jack reappeared from the kitchen carrying the Crazy Gang music book, and making them spring apart. ‘Nell says most of the machines are free that day. We’ve got a booking at a fete in Witney, but they’re only taking the smaller stuff. So that means you can have the gallopers, the helter-skelter, the big wheel, the ghost train, the speedway, the caterpillar, the swinging boats, most of the side stuff . . .’

  Posy, still shivering from the touch of Flynn’s fingers, nodded. It was all going to happen. It really was. ‘Then we’ll make that a definite booking. We’ll sort out money and put it in writing and everything as soon as I get home.’

  ‘Great. I’ve pencilled you into the diary here. Now, do you still want to have a look round?’

  ‘Sure,’ Flynn said. ‘More than ever now. We were wondering if we could hire the Limonaire, too. Have her powered by Queen Mab outside the pub on carnival night?’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. She’s housed on a lorry, so transport won’t be a problem. But I’ll have to come and give your Fowler the once-over before then,’ Jack said. ‘And bring Nell. We might be able to come to some sort of mutual arrangement here. It’s something we’ve wanted for ages. A proper showman’s engine to drive the gallopers.’

  They’d started to walk towards the back of the shed again. Flynn gave Posy a tiny secret smile. It was almost as erotic as the finger-stroking.

  Great timing, Posy, she thought. Great bloody timing.

  Four months ago she’d believed her heart was irreparably broken. Then the healing process had kicked in and she’d known she’d survive, alone, naturally, but she’d survive. Then it hadn’t been long before she’d realized that she still had feelings for Ritchie, and Ellis’s kiss in The Crooked Sixpence had sent tingles up her spine.

  These had been welcome reactions. Nothing to worry about. If it meant she wasn’t quite yet functioning on all reciprocal relationship cylinders, it had also meant that there was at least a spark.

  That was okay. She’d live and die a spinster, but hey, there were worse things.

  And now, out of the blue, Flynn Malone had made her go weak with lust simply by stroking her hand.

  Oh, joy.

  Flynn Malone, who’d be hightailing it back definitely to his homeland and probably to his girlfriend on the other side of the world before the year was out.

  Great, great timing.

  Flynn and Jack were happily comparing steam notes. Steam, it appeared, travelled the Atlantic well. It was a universal language. A bit like love.

  Firmly reminding herself that they were there on business, in fact, on the very business that had aided her recovery from Dumped Fiancee to Normal Person, Posy wandered around the dismembered bits of The Memory Lane Fair. It was like a huge child’s toy, ripped apart, each piece waiting to be lovingly slotted into the next to create magic.

  Most of the intricate paintwork was jewel-bright and matched the splodges and streaks which decorated Jack Morland. What an amazing talent he had. And the ornate gold scrolled lettering was a work of art all on its own: Petronella Bradley’s Golden Galloping Horses.

  Petronella Bradley’s Golden Galloping Horses seemed to take up most of the floor space. Petronella Bradley must be Nell, Jack’s partner, and not just in the business judging by his body language when he mentioned her. Lucky Nell.

  ‘. . . and this is the Limonaire . . .’ Jack’s voice rang high into the rafters. ‘We’re really lucky to have got it . . . and of course, if it was driven, as it should be, by a showman’s engine, it’d look spectacular. Anyway, I’ll just plug it into the mains now so that you get the picture.’

  Flynn stood beside Posy and smiled down at her. ‘Saved by the Crazy Gang, huh?’

  ‘Yeah. I never liked them much before. Now I actively hate them.’ She tried to sound flippant. ‘Big mistake snogging one of your friends, anyway.’

  ‘Snogging? Oh, right, you mean making out? Yeah, maybe.’

  The Limonaire, a huge fairground organ, was set into the open side of a lorry, and a mass of glorious colours, pipes, drums, lights and carved figures starte
d to creak and groan and flicker into life as Jack flicked the switch.

  Entranced, Posy held her breath.

  ‘Imagine this outside The Crooked Sixpence in the darkness,’ Flynn said softly. ‘With Queen Mab all lit up too, and crowds of people.’

  Jack, just visible up behind the pipes and drums, was feeding the concertina’d cardboard music book through the keyframe. With a wheeze and a drum roll, the lights flashed on, the figures started to move stiffly, and the shed was filled with loud, foot-tapping, happy music.

  ‘My God!’ Posy was awestruck. ‘It’s even better than I remembered it.’

  Flynn said nothing. She looked up at him. He was miles away: probably with Queen Mab and glowing coals and hissing steam and the rocking motion, surrounded by the music of more than sixty years earlier.

  The Crazy Gang book which had started all this, was flipping through the keyframe under Jack’s expert guidance, filling the shed with classics such as ‘Home Town’ and ‘Underneath the Arches’ and ‘Run Rabbit Run’. Posy, who was generally scathing about anything prior to the Backstreet Boys unless it was Adam Ant who she’d loved unashamedly through her youth, found her feet tapping and her head singing the words.

  This was absolutely wonderful. It would bring the crowds into Steeple Fritton in droves and, more importantly, keep them coming back over and over again.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Jack leaned out from behind the largest drum as soon as the music stopped. ‘Are we in business?’

  Posy, who could hear nothing but reverberations in her head, nodded wildly.

  ‘Sure thing,’ Flynn said. ‘Let’s exchange mobile numbers and get some dates worked out for you to come and take a look at Queen Mab.’

  Jack leapt athletically out of the organ lorry and he and Flynn were immediately nose to nose.

  Posy wandered across to where the galloping horses were stacked side by side after having been given their new livery for the travelling season. She stroked a stiff varnished golden mane. Petronella . . . the name was inscribed in a scroll along the horse’s arched neck surrounded by tiny scarlet hearts. Posy smiled. What a declaration of love from Jack the painter to Nell the owner. There must be one heck of a story there somewhere.