by Jill Mansell
‘Of course he’ll like you,’ said Evie.
‘He might not. He might only want the kind of daughter who’s mad on physics and museums and trips to the theatre to see plays by Shakespeare. Or,’ Gigi added as Evie opened her mouth to tell her just how unlikely that was, ‘he might decide he doesn’t want any kind of daughter at all.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t do that.’
‘You don’t know, though. Or he might pretend to be pleased, just to get over the embarrassing bit, then back off a couple of weeks later. That happens quite a lot.’ Gigi nodded sagely. ‘I’ve watched the Jeremy Kyle show.’
‘I don’t think that’ll happen.’ Evie watched a windsurfer scud across the surface of the lake, veering perilously close to a rowing boat.
Gigi shrugged. ‘But if it does, it won’t be my fault. So that’s why I’m not going to waste time getting nervous. How about you?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m definitely nervous.’
‘About going back? Why?’
She sounded so genuinely puzzled. ‘You’re eighteen. I’m thirty-four. And you’re brave,’ said Evie. ‘I’m not.’
‘Come on,’ Gigi protested. ‘How can you say that, after what you did? That was an amazingly brave thing to do.’
‘It was. But it was pretty much the first brave thing I’ve ever done in my life. And it’s OK while I’m up here, but it’s not going to be so easy once we’re back. Everyone’s going to know. I don’t know what’ll happen with my job. It’s just . . . scary.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Gigi jumped up and held out a hand to pull her to her feet. ‘Anyway, you’ll have us. Even if no one else in the whole of Bath is speaking to you, we still will.’ She paused then added mischievously, ‘Well, so long as you pay us.’
The kitchen was filled with the scent of baking bread. Lara wrestled with the heavy packing cases, pushing them up against the wall while Nettie took the loaves out of the oven.
The front door opened and banged shut, signalling the return of Evie and Gigi.
‘Lovely, just in time. Hungry, girls? There’s white and wholegrain, and I’ve made vegetable soup. Could someone fetch the butter from the fridge?’
Straightening up, Lara turned and watched as Nettie expertly tipped the loaves out of their tins and rapped their bases to make sure they were done. At sixty-five, her aunt was a powerhouse. Her hair was white and poker-straight, and had never been touched by a hairdresser; Nettie used the kitchen scissors and did it herself. Her year-round tan accentuated the blueness of eyes that had never experienced contact with any form of make-up; she wasn’t remotely interested in her appearance. Aunt Nettie loved cooking, she loved her animals and she loved Gigi and Lara. She was also mad about heavy metal music and liked to play it at maximum volume because that, apparently, was how you were meant to listen to it. Last night when Lara had complained about Metallica blaring out at midnight, Nettie had blithely replied, ‘Yet all these years I’ve had to put up with you caterwauling along to Take That.’
Caterwauling. What a cheek.
‘Right, who wants brown?’ Her aunt was wielding a massive serrated knife.
‘I do.’ Never mind wondering what life was going to be like without Nettie, what was it going to be like without her bread? ‘Oh, Nettie, I’m going to miss you so much. Are you sure you’ll be all right without us?’
Nettie rolled her eyes but she was smiling. ‘You do talk some nonsense. Has it occurred to you that you might not be indispensable?’
Lara gave up and sat down. When they’d returned six weeks earlier with the news that the house in Bath was theirs, Nettie’s first words had been, ‘You can move back and live in it!’
‘Or sell it.’ Having planned on broaching the subject rather more tentatively, Lara had been taken aback. ‘Or rent it out . . .’
But in all honesty, when had Nettie ever been tentative about anything? She’d said, ‘It’s your home, love. I’m not forcing you to live there if you don’t want to. But if you do, I say go for it. Whatever you do, don’t go thinking you should stay here because of me.’
And that was it; she had assured Lara and Gigi she’d be fine on her own without them. Although she wouldn’t be completely alone; she’d still have her chickens, her dozy sheep and tetchy goats, her beloved dogs. And this was her own home, she’d lived here for the last forty years. If she ever needed help, any of the other smallholders in the area would come to the rescue; there were more than enough friends to help out.
So that was it, the decision had been made. All that had remained was for Lara to hand in her notice at the jewellers and make the necessary arrangements for the move south. Having left school in June and with a gap year to kill before heading off to university, Gigi was easy.
And the house – their house – was standing waiting for them, empty now. Following the reading of the will, the solicitor had given Janice Carson two months’ notice to leave. She had finally moved out this week, gone to live with her wealthy sister in nearby Frome. Lara’s solicitor, paying a visit to the house following her departure, had reported back that it was indeed empty, of absolutely everything. Even the lightbulbs, the curtain rods and the toilet-roll holders had been removed.
But nothing was going to put Lara and Gigi off. The rental van had been hired, their belongings had been piled into packing cases and first thing tomorrow morning they were heading off down the motorway to begin their new life.
Or resume the old one.
Lara slathered butter on to a chunk of hot bread and pointed it at Nettie. ‘You know what I’m starting to think?’
‘No one ever knows that, pet. We couldn’t begin to guess.’
‘I’m thinking you’re looking forward to getting rid of us.’ She waggled the bread for emphasis. ‘Because I’m thinking there’s maybe a little secret something going on between you and Fred Milton.’
‘Really?’ Gigi made an eek! face. ‘Aunt Nettie! Is this true?’
‘Of course it isn’t true.’ Nettie patiently ladled the soup into bowls. ‘He’s a friend, that’s all. Fred’s got the farm at the end of Highpool Lane,’ she explained to Evie. ‘He looks like a bald eagle and his favourite singer’s Des O’Connor.’ Her tone was dry. ‘We’re a match made in heaven, obviously.’
‘You could be, though. He’s a nice man,’ Lara protested. ‘It’s been four years since Mary died. Mary was his wife,’ she added for Evie’s benefit.
‘He’s over seventy.’
‘But you get on so well together. And he’s lonely.’
‘Maybe so.’ Clearly bored with the clumsy attempts at matchmaking, Nettie handed Lara a full bowl. ‘But I’m not.’
Harry Wells had never needed to work hard at school. GCSEs and A-levels hadn’t been an issue for him because he had always known he’d be going into the family business. His grandfather had set up the tiny clothing company in Keswick sixty years ago, his parents had run it in their turn and it had always been a given that he would carry it on. It was a mark of his personality, then, that he had worked hard at school, obtaining excellent grades in his exams. That was just the way he was. He’d enjoyed getting high marks and making the teachers happy. It didn’t matter that in the twenty years since leaving school the obscure knowledge he’d gained had never found a use in real life.
Anyway, he was happy where he was, part of the community and ticking along nicely. Their tiny company produced well-made high-quality shirts for country folk and it was good to be appreciated. Most of their clientele were past retirement age and had been customers for decades. The shirts were put together by Morag and Betty in the workshop across the yard and Harry’s cramped office doubled as the shop for on-site purchases, although they were also stocked by a few stores in the north-west. In addition, before going on holiday a fortnight ago, Harry had finally got around to setting up a website so they could be bought online.
It was going pretty well so far. Back from his holiday late last night and logging in, Harry had been pleasantly surprised. The website h
ad been up and running for sixteen days now and they’d already sold nine shirts.
Betty was off with blood pressure and swollen ankles – ‘They’re like balloons, pet!’ – so Harry and Morag were on their own this morning. He’d just made her a mug of tea and carried it over to her in the workshop when a glossy black monster of a car pulled into the yard.
Harry had never seen a Maybach before, not in the flesh so to speak, but that’s what this was. Followed by a Mercedes. But this was Keswick and it enjoyed its fair share of wealthy visitors. The windows of both vehicles were tinted black but he had a private bet with himself that a dozen or so diminutive, immaculately dressed Japanese tourists would pile out with their cameras, pausing on their whistle-stop tour of the Lakes . . .
OK, so he was wrong. Instead the doors had opened and a dozen or so black men emerged all wearing sunglasses. The last thing you could call them was diminutive.
‘Hello.’ Wondering where they might be heading for, Harry said, ‘Are you lost? May I help you?’
‘Yo, man. What is that?’ The smallest of the visitors, at a shade under six foot and athletically built, nodded at the sign above the door.
‘The Flying Ducks. It’s the name of our company,’ Harry explained. The green and gold sign, incorporating their logo of three flying ducks, had never borne the actual name. ‘We sell shirts.’
‘Shirts?’ The man smiled, revealing very white teeth flanked by a couple of gold vampire-style incisors. He removed his mirrored shades. ‘What kind of shirts?’
‘Well, no offence,’ said Harry, ‘but I can’t imagine they’d be your cup of tea.’
Some of the other men visibly bristled. They were American. By their body language, he guessed that the one asking the questions was the one in charge.
‘Not my . . . cup of tea? You don’t say.’ Evidently amused by this expression, Vampire Teeth tilted his shaven head to one side. ‘How about you let me be the judge of that?’ He paused and pointed. ‘Is this your store?’
‘It is. Kind of. But you can’t all come in,’ said Harry.
Everyone stared at him. Finally, Vampire Teeth said silkily, ‘And why not?’
Harry performed a rapid head count; there were eleven of them in total. ‘Because there isn’t room. You’ll have to take it in turns. But I still don’t think our shirts will be up your street.’
He led the way into the dusty, un-air-conditioned office-cum-shop, slightly embarrassed by what was bound to happen next. This collection of blinged-up characters with their oversized jeans and crystal-encrusted sunglasses – yes, really – were going to laugh their heads off when they saw what was on offer.
‘Hey, y’all stay outside. Maz and AJ come in with me.’ Indicating who should stay and who should go, Vampire Teeth followed Harry into the shop. He surveyed the messy desk, the boxes of shirts stacked in haphazard piles and the samples adorning the plastic torsos against the far wall. ‘Man, you’re kidding me, right? This is it? For real?’
‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Harry waited for them to turn and leave in disgust. Instead he saw Maz and AJ produce a couple of fancy-looking camcorders and start recording.
‘Hey, man, don’t be so tetchy. Who d’ya sell these to? You OK with this, by the way?’ Vampire Teeth indicated the camcorders with a languid wave of the hand.
‘I suppose so.’ It wasn’t the first time they’d been used in the shop; tourists from overseas tended to be entranced by its quaintness and lack of glamour. Harry said patiently, ‘These shirts last for years. They’re nothing to do with fashion. Hill farmers buy them. I’m sorry to have to keep saying this, but they’re not your thing at all.’
Outside the wide-open door, a menacing New York voice growled, ‘He disrespectin’ you, boss?’
‘Cool it, Alvin. I don’t think he is.’ Vampire Teeth flashed an evil, pointy-toothed grin at Harry. ‘Don’t let him bother you. Safe, man. Show me what ya got.’
Good Lord. Harry blinked and wondered if this was a hold-up. His heart began to thud. Did they have guns?’
Aloud he said, ‘We don’t have a safe.’
This provoked a bark of laughter. ‘Hey, relax. I’m asking you to show me your shirts. The whole range.’
Oh. That was a relief. But did he really not understand he’d already seen everything there was to see? Harry pointed to the headless plastic mannequins in their shirts. ‘This is our range. We have a choice of short sleeves or, um, long sleeves. Colours are beige, cream, dark grey or khaki. Here at Flying Ducks we concentrate on quality, cloth and workmanship. These shirts are designed to last for—’
‘I’m a sixteen-inch collar. Can I try one on?’
Try one on? His customers didn’t usually bother; it was only a shirt. Harry said, ‘Of course, you’re very welcome to, but I’m afraid we don’t have a changing room . . .’
But Vampire Teeth was already peeling off his dazzling white T-shirt. He was evidently a regular at the gym, muscles rippling and not an ounce of fat on him. He looked at the label on the one Harry had pulled from its crackly cellophane packaging and raised an eyebrow. ‘Medium?’
‘Small, medium or large. We don’t do collar sizes.’ Harry watched him try the shirt on. It didn’t help that the man was wearing baggy jeans slung so low his underpants were showing; it was as incongruous as a rugby top teamed with a tutu.
And still the minions – they were definitely minions – were busy filming away.
Vampire Teeth surveyed his reflection in the small mirror on the counter.
‘I like it.’ He carefully examined the cuffs, the collar, noting the double stitching and the neatly edged buttonholes. ‘Quality. And I like the ducks.’ He tapped the green and gold logo on the breast pocket. ‘How many you got in the medium?’
‘In which colour?’
‘All the colours.’
‘You mean in stock now?’ Surprised by the question, Harry said, ‘Five in each colour. So, twenty altogether.’
‘Right, I’ll have them.’
‘One of each colour?’
‘All of them.’
‘What, all twenty?’
‘Yes. Is that a problem?’
This was surreal.
‘It could be. Look, I’m sorry, but you haven’t even asked the price yet. These aren’t cheap, I’m afraid.’ Harry cleared his throat. ‘They’re seventy-five pounds each. But as I say,’ he added hurriedly, ‘they’re very well made and last for years, so you really don’t need so many. One in each colour would be plenty.’
‘Hey.’ Vampire Teeth pulled a wallet from the back pocket of his designer jeans and flipped out a black Amex card. ‘I want all of them.’
‘You can’t have all of them.’
‘Why can’t I?’
‘Because if you did, there wouldn’t be any left for anyone else.’
‘So? That’s their problem, not mine.’
‘But they’re my customers. This is my shop. If one of them came in this afternoon wanting a new shirt in a medium, I wouldn’t want to let them down.’ Harry stood his ground, steadfastly ignoring the camcorders. ‘You can have sixteen shirts. Let me keep one of each colour and you can buy the rest.’
Vampire Teeth surveyed him in silence for several seconds. Finally he said, ‘OK.’
‘But I’m afraid we don’t take American Express.’
A sigh. The Amex was returned to the wallet. A great wad of notes was produced instead. Harry’s eyes widened at the sight of so much cash. Then again, with so many people around him, Vampire Teeth was unlikely to get mugged.
‘You don’t have a clue who I am, do you?’
‘No, I don’t. Sorry. I’m afraid that’s, um, twelve hundred pounds in total. Are you absolutely sure that’s OK?’
‘I’m ahbsolutely shore.’ Vampire Teeth mimicked his oh-so-English accent. ‘You know something, man? I like you.’ He watched as Harry began parcelling the shirts up with brown paper and string. ‘You ever hear of a hip-hop artist called EnjaySeven?’
‘I haven’t. I’m sorry. Is that you? Art isn’t really my forte,’ said Harry. ‘I did see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel a few years back . . .’
‘Michelangelo had some talent, but I’m not talkin’ about that kind of artist. Hey, Ronnie, volume.’ Vampire Teeth made the turn-it-up signal to one of the massive men lurking in the doorway, who in turn gestured to whoever was still in the first car. Some form of noise that until now Harry had been only vaguely aware of in the background was cranked up to shudder level and blasted across the yard: thud thud THUD-CRASH, thud thud CRASH.
Good heavens.
‘That’s you?’
‘Yeah, man. That’s me.’
‘It’s very . . . loud.’ Harry felt sorry for the pigeons on the roof. What a racket.
‘OK, Ron.’ The signal was made to reduce the volume. ‘So tell me what kinda music you listen to.’
‘Not your kind, no offence. I enjoy Michael Bublé. Um, do you want to take the shirt off now?’
‘No, I’ll wear it. Flying ducks.’ The heavy gold watch flashed on his wrist as he patted the breast pocket once more. ‘Know something? You’re a pretty cool guy.’
‘That’s not true. I’m the very opposite of cool. Even I know that,’ said Harry.
‘But I like you for it. You’re comfortable with being yourself.’ It was the turn of the gold incisors to glint in the sunlight streaming through the dusty window. ‘You happy to appear on my show, man?’
‘What show?’
‘My show. All about me. These two aren’t filming us for the good of their health, ya know. You’ll be on MTV. You cool with that?’
All this talk of cool. Harry thought back over the last few minutes and decided he hadn’t said or done anything he regretted. ‘Fine. I imagine I’ll be portrayed as the comedy uptight Englishman.’
‘There is that small possibility.’ The grin broadened. ‘But you never know, you might turn out to be one of those comedy uptight Englishmen people like to see.’
Hmm, or throw rocks at. Oh well. Harry handed over the neatly tied parcels of shirts and shook the man’s hand, as he always did with his customers.