‘A little tired, dear child. And we’ll have a long day tomorrow – it’s rehearsal day, remember, and we still need to run some of those props to earth.’
‘So we do. Shall I risk hanging the washing out overnight?’
‘Why not? The forecast’s good.’
I got on with it, thoroughly worried, because he often behaved as if he was the only one on God’s earth who could peg a shirt. Was it time for me to talk to Robin, to see what he could get out of him? Or to suggest to Aidan that he should press him a little harder? The only consolation, I mused as I gave the washing whirligig a goodnight twirl, was that – secrets apart – at least we seemed to be friends again.
Although I was supposed to find all the props required, my restoration backlog was so bad that I gratefully accepted Griff’s suggestion that he should run them to earth, preferably from our stock – not the items destined for the shop or the website, but the stuff that was waiting to be consigned to charity. Often we’d want a single item from an auction lot, and the rest was simply useless – as far as we were concerned, at least. So there was a well-beaten trail from our place to the Heart of Kent Hospice shop at the other end of the village.
I was just checking the last brush stroke on a Rockingham teapot when I heard Griff calling up the stairs, more excited than I’d heard him for a week.
‘Angel heart! Dear one!’
I still remembered to put everything down carefully before I popped my head out of my workroom. ‘Are you OK?’
‘These dresses! When did they arrive?’
‘Big Dave dropped them off. You remember that sale when I bought a bedroom suite? He had the furniture for his hens – no, don’t ask: I don’t know either – and he brought over the contents when you were out one day.’ I could have pointed out that he was at the doctor’s but didn’t want to rock the very fragile boat. ‘There are paper patterns too. I thought of eBay. And for the dresses too.’
‘But they’re your size!’
Coming down to join him, I pulled a face. ‘People are saying they make me look like Heidi, whoever she is. And I don’t think they’re being complimentary.’
‘I think they may in part be alluding to your relationship to me, my love. Heidi is a fictional character who lived with her grandfather. I’m sure you’ll find a copy of the original book in the library, though it may be in the children’s section. But forget Heidi! Look at the fashion pages of today’s Times!’ Taking my hand, he pulled me into the living room. ‘What an investment you’ve made! Look!’
I looked. Fitted bodices, nipped waists and full skirts were all over the place.
‘You’d look so good in them, it’s a shame to sell any of them – oh, except some may not be your colour, of course.’
‘Then let’s try and sell those first, shall we?’ I said, non-committally. ‘By the way, how are you getting on with Ulysses S. Grant? Got a buyer yet?’
His face fell as quickly as if he’d slapped on that mask of tragedy, mouth really turned down. ‘Dear Lord, I’d forgotten all about him!’ Turning from me, he used his spray, I was sure of it. In fact, there was that funny chemical smell on his breath when he faced me again.
‘Not a problem,’ I assured him. ‘Antiques don’t exactly go bad, do they?’
‘But carpe diem, Lina, carpe diem. I’ll get on to it now!’ he declared and toddled off. He turned back. ‘Don’t forget we have to pick up our new car this afternoon!’ He even managed a little skip of pleasure.
I took some photos of the dresses that I really didn’t fancy and posted them on eBay. I was just about to start work again when Griff summoned me down to lunch. Salmon salad. All these people and their oily fish.
Griff fell in love with the new-old Fiesta, no doubt about it, playing with the various knobs and buttons while I finished the paperwork and flirted mildly with the salesman.
He was practically skipping with delight when I emerged. ‘I’ve tested every bell and whistle, dear one – did you know we had air conditioning? And fog lamps? And – look – you can open and shut the passenger window from the driver’s side. Now, will that dear young man tell us how to use the radio – and fix all these preset buttons? Oh, even a darling little mirror in the sun visor! Bliss indeed . . .’
It was fish of a different sort from our lunchtime salmon that I smelt out at the oast that evening. No, nothing to do with the cast or the play. Kippers. The smokery was going full out, and on top of all the other unlovely things about the industrial estate, now we got a burst of fish every time anyone opened the oast door.
And it stayed. It didn’t just linger, it actually seemed to get worse, as if someone was grilling kippers, as one of my foster-mothers used to do for a totally vile Saturday breakfast that lingered on your skin and in your hair even if you didn’t eat a mouthful. I would have pointed this out if Emilia had given anyone else a second to speak. But she was tragedy-queening all over the place and even produced a tiny bottle of what she announced was very exclusive perfume to spray the place. She got quite hysterical with one of the actors who held the door wide open for a colleague carrying a wine box and some glasses. In her place I’d have told Emilia she wasn’t going to get any of the booze in the interval, but the offender just whispered an apology and scuttled off to her place on the balcony, leaving the wine on the table in the roundel en route. Maybe she turned up the heating too: it certainly got hotter and hotter as the evening progressed, whereas it had been cool to bloody cold on previous occasions.
Although I didn’t have a part, I had to say far more this evening than any of the actors, who were supposed to be managing without their scripts. And failing. I tried to be tactful with my interruptions, but they had to be made. You’d have expected Emilia to have said a few strong words, but as it happened she was one of the worst offenders, actually stumbling over the words herself, and I’m sure that when she said she was checking her script for marginal notes on stage directions she was really mugging up her lines.
Meanwhile, the smell was getting worse and worse. Not to mention the heat. If I hadn’t had to concentrate so hard, I’d have fallen asleep.
During the break, because I didn’t fancy the contents of the wine box and in any case was going to be driving a still strange vehicle, I slipped outside. By now it was too dark to see much. If I asked myself what or who I wanted to see, I quickly told myself I was simply breathing in good fresh air. Actually, there was still just a hint of smoke in the air, but it was nothing compared to the fug inside the oast. It was also chilly, cool enough for me to need to huddle into my cardie. After a quick check on our nice new Fiesta, beautifully anonymous in the middle of the row of other actors’ vehicles, I scarpered back inside. I’d never been inside a smoking shed, but it must have been something like this, smell-wise at least. But there was no smoke in here at all.
Back to the door. Half in, half out, I compared smells. Far, far worse inside.
‘For heaven’s sake, you stupid child, close the door!’ Emilia yelled. A bit more than yelled, and a few more words.
Behind her I could see Griff’s eyes rounding in alarm. He must have seen my face tighten, my knuckles turning white.
Turning outside again – no way was I hauling the oast air into my lungs – I took a deep breath. If I reacted to Emilia as I wanted, it would hurt Griff more than it hurt her – which would be a very great deal. Breathe out, breathe in. And smile. Even though she was still screaming about the door. Well, I suppose she must have thought I was simply being insolent when I disobeyed her orders so blatantly. Now I did worse. I propped open the door. Stepping back inside, I folded my arms so I couldn’t flail with my fists and tried the smile again.
‘Emilia,’ I said as quietly as I could, ‘I think you’re mistaken. I think the smell’s coming from in here.’ I had to repeat it a couple of times before she registered I was arguing with her. No, not arguing, disagreeing.
Griff managed to smile at me, nodding encouragingly.
Still keeping m
y right hand clamped under my left armpit, I raised my left hand palm forward like a traffic policeman. Definitely not like a school kid asking for permission to speak. Don’t think that for a minute.
Emilia moved closer and closer. She must have been a terrific Lady Macbeth. The trouble was that her neck had got scrawny with age, and her hissing reminded me of nothing so much as a bad-tempered goose on the field where we stored our caravan. So I did the unforgivable. I laughed.
As she got ever closer, I allowed my other hand to free itself, but I didn’t ball it into a fist. Now I held both hands palms out. ‘Hang on. Emilia, just hang on and listen.’ I started to laugh again. When I heard a couple of murmurs from the actors, I thought I might have them on my side. ‘This fish. It’s in here somewhere. Not out there. Go and see for yourself. Lovely fresh air. Cold and fresh. No more than a hint of smoke.’
She didn’t move, but a couple of the others did, returning with puzzled faces.
‘She’s right,’ said Wine-Box Lady, with the terrified air of someone telling Emilia that someone else had just won the Oscar she’d been shortlisted for. ‘I really think she is.’
Within moments, accusations were being hurled around about the contents of the actors’ shopping bags. I would have loved Emilia to be caught out, but she appeared to carry nothing but expensive cosmetics, one of those crazily expensive leather-bound diaries, an address book to match, and two lace handkerchiefs, one of which she seized to mop her eyes. I hoped for the linen’s sake that her mascara was waterproof.
For some reason, when everyone’s secrets had been revealed – someone hoarded rail tickets, someone carried a Swiss Army knife with every blade going, to judge by the size – they all turned to me as if I was the fount of all wisdom.
Griff winked at me from the back of the room.
‘First of all,’ I said carefully, looking at the flushed faces and undone top-buttons, ‘could we turn the heat down? And prop the doors open? All of them? Thanks, that’s better.’
‘What idiot turned the heat on?’ Emilia demanded. ‘We have to pay for it, remember. We agreed not to use it till October, if my memory serves me correct?’ Having taken centre stage again, she looked around accusingly. Not surprisingly, no one owned up.
‘What if it wasn’t one of us?’ I suggested as she pushed her blazing eyes within inches of her friends’ faces. ‘What if it was the caretaker? Or someone else?’
‘There is no caretaker!’ she declared.
The solicitor whose four by four tyres had been slashed shook his head, but, looking at Emilia, said nothing. Then he took a deep breath. ‘Someone’s got to be responsible for the upkeep and maintenance. But before we find out who, there might be another option.’
I was ready to revise my opinion of him, despite having first seen him wearing totally unsuitable gear for a man his age.
‘Do you not all agree that there has been sabotage?’ he continued. ‘Many of us have suffered damage to our vehicles. I wonder if the same malicious person has now turned his – or her – attention to the theatre itself.’
‘Exactly.’
He beamed at me. ‘It might not be generally known, but one of my partners is a distinguished, as well as a notably discreet, divorce lawyer. Occasionally, he regales us with stories from his professional journal of the antics some divorcing parties get up to. One is what he has come to refer to as the prawn gambit.’
Someone muttered a correction. ‘Surely you refer to the pawn gambit, Gerald.’
‘I am in the habit of saying precisely what I mean. One of the parties is so incensed by the behaviour of the other, who happens to be the one retaining what was once their mutually owned property from which he or she has now been excluded, that subtle revenge is exacted.’
I threw him a smile: I had a very good idea what was coming next.
‘The person cast out from the property inserts into hidden places – I believe curtain rails are popular locations – a quantity of shrimps or prawns, which smell particularly unpleasant when they rot. I am wondering if instead of prawns we have smoked mackerel or herrings?’
‘In a heating vent rather than a curtain rail?’ I suggested, looking in the direction of Mr Swiss Army Knife. Surely, there must be a screwdriver amid all those implements? Yes, there was.
By the time we had located the fish – probably well past its sell-by date before it was smoked – it was far too late and everyone was far too ruffled to continue with the rehearsal. Gerald, the solicitor, called a quick meeting to discuss who might feel such hostility towards the troupe.
‘What’s happened before might have been construed as simple vandalism. This feels more like an attempt to make us quit the premises altogether,’ he said. ‘Does anyone know why someone should make such an attempt?’
Since their troubles had started before I even came on the scene I kept quiet – there might, after all, be other useful information coming my way.
‘Of course we don’t,’ Emilia declared. ‘Do we? As you so wisely said, darling, it’s just some stupid yobs who should be horsewhipped. Now, throwing open all the windows and doors has made the place very cold, and it’s quite clear you all just want to go home.’
There was a loud murmur, some of which might have been agreement. She took it as such, gathering up her things. So it certainly wasn’t the moment for me to ask where the planks used for Griff’s desk had come from, or, something that I was now beginning to wonder, why the actor previously playing Griff’s role had quit so suddenly.
But we hadn’t heard the last of Emilia. ‘Rehearsal on Sunday will start an hour early and continue an hour later. Do I make myself clear? We simply cannot afford to lose time.’
For the first time – and probably the last – I found myself in absolute agreement with her.
FOURTEEN
Having been out of touch for longer than I cared to think, Morris phoned horribly early next morning. He said he’d got good news, bad news. Why was I surprised that there was bad? The good was that he was just about to fly to London for a meeting. Was there any chance I could meet him, just for a couple of hours? The bad news was that he had to fly out again the same evening – operational reasons, he said. Which might or might not mean Leda, I supposed. Even as I let the thought form I hated myself. How could I be jealous of a toddler?
For Griff, the only problem was my getting back from London. He was talking about meeting me and taxis and so on before he even gave a thought about what I should wear. I more than made up for his failure.
What with one thing and another, when we met in the nice hotel where he’d booked a room Morris and I didn’t have much time for the sort of conversation that anyone else would be interested in. Then he waited outside to despatch me in a taxi to Victoria before getting in the cab behind. He was heading for the City airport for a flight leaving soon after eight.
I had never yet put my head down in a taxi and cried, but I felt like it now. Passion was all very well, but leaping from your lover’s arms and heading home without so much as a nice wind-down coffee afterwards makes you feel curiously cheap. Soiled. It did me, anyhow. I spent the train journey home wondering . . . No, how could I tell him the relationship wasn’t working? Griff apart, he was the only decent human being who’d ever loved me. How could I break up with him? He’d even given me what he called sorry presents – chocs and perfume. Not to mention another bloody teddy bear.
Sorry, Tim Bear – but he knew what I meant. I’ll swear he put up the teddy bear equivalent of two fingers to the trio of posh Steiffs as he snuggled into bed with me.
Fortunately, an urgent item for repair had been couriered over at much the same time as I was setting out from Bredeham the day before, so I was able to avoid Griff’s compassionate glances more subtly than he was avoiding my anxious glances at him: I was in my workroom before nine and didn’t leave, apart to refuel, until six that evening. By then I’d not only rescued a fine piece of Coalport, though there was still a lot of fine-tuning to do b
efore I could call it repaired, but had also worked out a story that would account for my morning grumpiness. In the event it wasn’t needed. An old acting crony of Griff’s turned up out of the blue, and dear old Griff was so busy conjuring a feast for three from a meal for two that he didn’t have time to cross-question me. It was my job to prepare the table (lay would be far too basic a term) with flowers, the best china, some fine old glasses and linen napkins. Oh, and candles. Of course.
Somehow Griff’s feeding of the three had the same results as Jesus’ feeding the five thousand: though you would have thought there would be a shortage of food, miraculously there was a load left over. Not a lot of wine, however. In fact, even Griff was so concerned for his old mate’s driving that he pressed him to stay over on our sofa. However, I suspect Barrington – never Barry, he assured me, even amongst his intimates – had wanted a bit more than a solo night on a put-you-up bed, and he turned out into the night, even spurning extra coffee, as grumpy as a child whose goody bag had disappeared.
It was Griff’s turn to be grumpy on Sunday, largely because of Emilia’s unilateral decision to extend rehearsal hours. We would have to leave Bredeham before noon, which was, as Griff pointed out, far too early for lunch. But he certainly couldn’t survive until seven that evening without sustenance – and I wouldn’t argue with that. He wasn’t diabetic, not quite, but had some pre-diabetic condition so he was supposed to maintain a steady flow of food.
‘Easy,’ I declared, feeling better after a steady stream of texts from Morris beating himself up for the miserable date we’d had on Friday. Perfunctory was one of the words he’d used, which I thought was a good one. I committed it to memory.
‘Easy?’ Griff prompted.
‘Picnic,’ I said. ‘There must be somewhere near the oast house where we can park up and party.’
‘It’s threatening rain.’
‘We eat in the car. And I vac up the crumbs later.’
Guilt Trip Page 11