by Shawna Lewis
“It’s so… lived in,” Marnie enthused. “I love it.” She experienced a brief flashback of her days as a rural Madam.
While it was always heartening when people showed an interest, Bel couldn’t quite understand the attraction, or why her friend was so interested in the booking procedure, licences and charges.
Marnie, meanwhile, was slotting the place into her plans, but this time she would do it properly. She had no intention of going back inside. There were contracts to pursue, services to promote, suppliers and clients to be found. But for now, there was no need for Belinda to know.
An hour later, Marnie was on a grimy bus back to the city, her mind swirling with possibilities. There was no doubt in her mind that she would make a success of this; any doubts concerned getting away with it.
6
A month had passed since Marnie’s visit to Sallby. Melanie and her mother were slowly adjusting to life without menfolk in the house, though it seemed more like a half-life. The girl threw herself into school work – or so she told her mother. Her preference was to spend evenings in her room on ‘assignments’: i.e. keeping in touch with her 2,147 Facebook friends. Belinda had subsided, almost, into the role of a numbly mechanical functionary. She cleaned the house when it didn’t need cleaning; did the laundry, the shopping, the cooking, her job; supported her parents, and relaxed by dealing with village hall matters, which were thin on the ground. In her spare moments, she found time to worry about Dorothy, last seen following her in Denswick marketplace.
Bookings for the hall continued to decline, the dancing class having folded because few parents had the money to pay. The young women who had started their dancing days in this same room and gone on to train as teachers returned to the dole, their certificates stuffed at the backs of drawers, with little hope of future relevance. No-one wanted to use the building because no-one could afford to pay. The committee and Belinda continued to meet, but whereas in the past meetings had been friendly and relaxed, now they became worrisome, imbued with a sense of failure and despondency. Dully, they discussed the latest blocked drain or faulty heater. A hastily-organised jumble sale raised a scant £67, hardly worth all the effort, but it would help pay the refuse-collection charge, payable whether the bin needed emptying or not. The long-term outlook seemed hopeless. The previously-unthinkable step of boarding up the hall and referring themselves to the Charity Commission for dissolution had to be considered. ‘After Christmas,’ the committee decided; after submission of the online annual return to the Commission in January. They’d see what happened when the accounts were examined. There were no actual debts outstanding as yet, but it would only take one powerful storm…
The winter nights were long and dreary, and Belinda was missing Doug. Her mood lightened a little when he came home at weekends, but it was a forced gaiety. The gap where Aidan had been, the knowledge that life would never be the same again, followed her round like the smell of sour milk.
Already beginning to weather, her wooden snail looked good beside the tiny garden pond. The pale cedar had taken on a richer hue after Bel applied the preservative mix of boiled linseed oil, white spirit and malt vinegar Ambrose had insisted upon. She stood at the kitchen sink, watching a robin hop in the grass, then flutter onto the snail’s head to sample some scattered titbits. The bird’s perkiness cheered her for a moment. The robin had come to represent Aidan; diligently she put out the breakfast crumbs each day in an attempt to fill the gap.
The ringing phone made her jump. Someone wanted to book the village hall for six hours on a Saturday night for a private function, the nature of which was hazy. Something about Sallby being a central meeting place for like-minded individuals from different parts of the county. Belinda wasn’t too inquisitive: £60 was £60, after all. She agreed to post out the hire agreement to an address in the city and await the deposit. Payment would be made in full before the date and she would meet the caller on his arrival.
Ending the call, Belinda returned to the sink with a little skip. She rested her elbow on the draining board, chin in hand, trying to remember where she had heard that man’s voice before. The robin had gone
*
At five o’clock on a dark December afternoon, a large box wagon drove along Sallby’s main street and pulled gingerly onto the field next to the village hall. Behind the wheel, tense with concentration, was a tall, thickset, shaven-headed man unused to driving any vehicle at all, let alone a hired van of these proportions. Beside him sat a slim, blonde-haired woman in her forties. Having parked, they climbed out and walked round to the already-lit building.
Waiting for them, keys in hand, was Anita Su, who had agreed to open up for the unknown hirer in Belinda’s absence. Tetchy when the hirers arrived ten minutes after the agreed time, Anita was in a rush. The Su family ran the only oriental fast-food outlet in the village and that day were working on a pre-paid order: a takeaway banquet for sixty-five. All hands were needed in the kitchen.
“When you finish, drop the keys through the letter box of 18 Dapple Grove.” She handed over a sketch map of the route to Belinda’s house, quickly pointed out the facilities and fire exits, collected the fee and jogged away, no questions taken.
The couple sped into action, the woman closing the curtains while the man returned to the van. He reversed it out of the field and round to the side fire exit, where the activity would be less visible to passers-by. The rear loading doors opened and several people, women mostly, clambered out. They worked as a team, unloading wheeled metal contraptions and boxes, heavy but manhandleable, then suitcases, briefcases, folding screens and finally, cases of wine, crates of lager and a barrel of beer. They worked quietly for two hours, readying the place.
Clothes rails heavy with garments both smart and glitzy divided the place into individual boutiques, offering a range of female apparel for both night and day wear. Shoes, from stiletto-heeled ankle-breakers to pomponned slippers, together with the fitting paraphernalia still occasionally found in the higher-class footwear establishments, took up one corner. From another, the scents of a well-known brand of party-plan cosmetics wafted the scent of luxury and wellbeing. Strings of costume jewellery dangled and glittered from display stands; dazzling rings of knuckle-duster proportions lay on velvet cloths; studs and dangly rings for pierced ears only were hooked onto cards which hung beneath a tiny mirror, for purchasers’ self-inspection.
A third corner had been more privately set out: a cubicle formed from the blue folding screens housed a small table, winged mirror and an upholstered chair. The outside of the screens showed pictures of well-coiffured women. Only on close inspection was it possible to read the text beneath the photographs; this explained the materials from which the hair was made. On a small table, wigs adorned four blank-eyed model heads, hinting at the contents of the red velveteen ottoman at the side of the cubicle.
In the back room, polished glasses stood ready in rows on the bar. The barrel had been linked up to the rarely used pumps, bottles of spirits slotted into optics and the bottled liquor conveniently displayed, along with tiny packs of savoury nibbles. A Temporary Events Notice from the local licensing authority was pinned to a notice board: Marnie had been determined to do most things right.
She and Bud were satisfied with the finished effect, and praised the traders’ efforts as they handed out mugs of tea and coffee before opening the doors. They also collected £200 from each stallholder, as agreed in writing and backed up by a £50 deposit when the initial invitation to take part was accepted. A cheque for the £60 hall hire fee, signed illegibly, had been posted in advance to the bookings secretary along with the completed hire agreement. It had aroused no suspicion: Belinda and Marnie had never got round to sharing surnames.
Shortly after seven-thirty, a fully occupied fifty-two-seater coach drew up outside Sallby Village Hall with a shush of air brakes. The door swished back. Passengers alighted. Conversation ceased. The party passed i
nto the building in silence. The coach moved away, to park up at the motorway services three miles away.
They filed up the six steps into the building: the strutters and the waddlers; the neat-boned whippets with short, cocky steps, and the porky snub-nosed, who swayed when they walked; the long and lean, hatchet-faced, and slender, cherubic teens not quite sure which side of the line their future lay. An observer might have been hard-pressed to explain the presence of such a disparate band of men in an English village hall so early on a Saturday evening.
An aura of shyness descended on the party as they viewed the bounty before them. For once, they would be able to do their specialised shopping without fear of mockery or abuse. Here were ladylike shoes in manly proportions; corsetry for concealment and enhancement; floaty dresses designed to hang from brickies’ shoulders; rings for fitters’ fingers; make-up to make the rugged radiant, and cleavage-making brassieres in rich-hued satin and lace.
For half an hour, the shoppers browsed and murmured among themselves, admiring or rejecting the merchandise displayed. Slowly, confidence increased. A few took advantage of the bar for Dutch courage. Then the serious shopping began. Still wearing some of their everyday attire, the shoppers piece by piece accumulated entire outfits. The effect became increasingly bizarre as items were tried and kept on or discarded, each purchaser aiming for his own individual style. Behind screens and in the cloakrooms, jeans and sweaters were thrown aside or stuffed in rucksacks.
Like butterflies drying their wings in the sunshine, the unprepossessing body of men transformed into a bevy of beautiful women, comfortable in their glory and their alter egos, gender distinguishable only by hands, feet and voices.
Arms folded across his chest, Bud Baxter had fallen into bouncer mode. Changing location from time to time, his role now was to stop trouble before it happened. The punters might have looked and moved like women, but a swung punch would land with a heftier crack than most female fists could deliver. There must be no damage to the building’s fabric or furniture: Marnie insisted upon it. Therefore there must be no fighting.
Even here, footwear for the larger-boned transvestite was difficult to find. It was inevitable that competition would break out, and it broke out over a pair of Size 12, stack-heeled, cream leather lace-up brogues.
In one corner Vicky, a beefy body of fifty-five in a stylish, bronze wrapover dress with three-quarter sleeves and a ruched waist, was after an elegant, mature look. The dress fitted well over an impressively sculpted bosom and less convincing hips, but was not complemented by the black socks and trainers Victor had arrived in. No make-up had yet been applied: the five o’clock shadow was disconcerting.
The attractive displays so carefully arranged by the shoe stallholder had been turned upside down as the customers riffled through boxes in search of a perfect fit. While Vic was thus employed, he came upon the single shoe that stole his heart. It was the right size and colour and had the classic elegance he was looking for. He bared his right foot and slipped on the pop-sock provided. The shoe was just right and looked as good as it felt. The search began for its mate.
Vic found it on the foot of his arch enemy, Sam. Polite requests to hand it over were ignored, and the interchange became more physical. Bud left his station outside the Ladies’ and made his way towards the raised voices, arriving just as Sam’s brogued left foot made forceful contact with Vic’s private parts.
Vic doubled over, on the way down inadvertently nutting a slightly built dental technician named Ashley just as he bent forward to pick up a pair of four-inch stilettos.
Ashley went down like a dropped brick, landing on an upturned heel which pierced his flesh just beneath the ribs. As he lay stunned and crumpled on a mess of crushed cardboard, blood seeped through his new batwing top.
Bud reached the scene as the red blotch spread. He was used to other people’s blood and a pretty safe pair of hands when it came to breaking up a fight. He grabbed Sam and slung him through the front door, with admonitions to wait outside. Vic was still folded and in no condition to cause more trouble. Ashley needed attention.
Marnie, appearing from nowhere, clambered over the boxes to look at the wound. She was very afraid, but wore her harshest expression to deter further aggression. The other shoppers backed away and returned to their own purchases. Bud fetched a First Aid box from the kitchen but ignored the Accident Book stuck through the handle. Marnie took the plastic gloves from their tiny sleeve and slipped them on before lifting Ashley’s voluminous top. The puncture wound was the diameter of a drinking straw, hardly bigger, and a centimetre deep, no deeper, thank goodness. Heart in mouth, she cleaned the wound and applied a folded gauze pad held in place by a length of sticking plaster. The bleeding slowed and Ashley, pale and shaken but coming round, was anxious not to draw attention to his situation. Bud sat him on a chair with a cup of water and left him to pull himself together.
Turning his attention to Sam, the bouncer went outside to find the instigator smoking a cigarette by the bus stop, one foot still wearing the high-heeled, cream brogue.
“Nice shoe, but one’s no good, pal.”
Sam nodded sombrely. No violence had been one of Marnie’s most explicit instructions when detailing arrangements on Facebook. The evening had begun so well, but now it looked as if Sam had barred himself from future jaunts. And the shoe was pinching his bunion, anyway.
“Sorry, mate. Tell Marnie it won’t happen again. Old habits die hard and all that…”
He bent and untied the fine lace, removed the shoe and handed it to Bud. They walked back up the steps and into the hall. With a handshake and a grunting apology to the recovering Vicky, the shoe was handed over.
As if by some silent signal, at 9.45 the stallholders began to pack away their merchandise. Most shoppers were by this time barely recognisable from their arrival selves. Whether their adopted persona was a blousy broad, bronzed bodybuilder, whore or housewife, the clients worked as a team to move tables and folding chairs into a line down the middle of the floor. White paper from a banqueting roll covered the scuffs and stains on the table tops.
Soon, the stalls’ remaining merchandise had been boxed and transferred to the back of the van, which was then reversed end-on to a blank wall for security. At 10.15, Lee Su’s takeaway delivery van drew up outside the hall’s disabled access. Lee, Anita and their staff had sweated long to prepare this feast, which had been a handy way to use up leftovers as well as a nice earner.
The village hall’s stock of plates was spread out on the tables and the guests seated – almost all women, it seemed to Lee, who felt a little uneasy. Lee liked his women petite in the Chinese fashion; these ladies were well built with thick necks, and many had hair on the backs of their hands. Although he’d come from Hong Kong with his parents when he was just a child, he would never get used to the strangeness of the English.
He carried in trays laden with polystyrene containers, and willing hands distributed them evenly down the line of tables. Spiced sauces, of chilli and black bean, ginger and oyster, released their aromas into the air. There was everything on the takeaway menu that you could think of. Plates of prawn crackers, bowls of rice and noodles and tubs of curry sauce were shared between diners. The odours of hairspray and beer fumes were doused by these new smells. The guests all tucked in.
There was an occasional spillage on floor and frontages, but nothing that couldn’t be sorted by a mop and a damp cloth. The atmosphere was comfortable, the earlier upset forgotten. How good it felt to be well dressed, well fed, in good company as women together. Bud and the barman were not rated highly as ‘babe magnets’, so faded into the background.
While the meal was in progress the coach had returned and drawn onto the field. The driver was busy unloading something from the under-floor luggage hold and stacking more boxes by the side door. Then the contents were carried in and set up down the sides of the room ready for the next activity.
It was this that caused Marnie most disquiet, for the simple reason that, according to the premises licence, the building had to be vacated by midnight. She was keeping her fingers crossed that any chance passer-by would not know that. She was also hoping that no one would spill the beans about the law-breaking she was about to aid and abet.
In a darkened hall, angled lamps shone cones of light onto baize-covered tables, eight in all. Roulette wheels, chips, rakes, cards and other gambling paraphernalia were arranged ready for play. Low music played on a continuous loop to create a relaxing ambience. The DIY Casino Outfit from Kitty’s Mobile Casinos had been delivered to Bud’s flat a week ago. He knew the games well enough, but this portable equipment was a bit tackier than he was used to. He’d make it work somehow, confident he could make this part of the evening profitable, as long as the licensing authorities didn’t get wind.
Bud had opted for the Superior kit, hired at £260 including delivery and comprising eight games of roulette, poker dice and blackjack. Bud’s venture differed from the usual DIY casino system in just one respect: instead of the ‘fun money’ supplied, real cash would cross the tables. Marnie and Bud had argued about this. So far, there had been nothing illegal about the night’s enterprise, meaning no prospect of court appearances or prison. They had read up on the legal side of things, and knew that by allowing real money to be used, they were breaching the terms of the prize gaming provisions in Part 14 of the Gambling Act 2005. Contrary to this regulation, there would be private gain. Most of that would be Bud’s, though the stallholders he had quickly trained as croupiers would get a cut.
For the new trainees it had been a long night. It was difficult to sustain the atmosphere of fun and laughter when everyone was tired. The punters already looked jaded – wigs askew and lipstick smeared – but the opportunity had presented itself and Bud had been unable to resist. On reflection, he thought as he was stacking the chips, a separate event might have been better, though more likely to be rumbled.