‘We’re presenting Harriet with her programme for the Fartenwald Buchfest, sir,’ gabbled Tristan.
‘We’re so thrilled that she’s agreed to come,’ added Vanessa.
‘It’s going to make all the difference in the world to our paperback promotion,’ said Marilyn, and then added hastily: ‘Not that there’s any doubt it will do wonderfully well!’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Chris. ‘Amazing. Sir.’
‘It’s all very exciting,’ I cooed graciously, and was rewarded by the warm waves of gratitude and relief which eddied round me.
The GM laid a solicitous hand on my shoulder.
‘Where are you putting Mrs Blair up?’ he enquired.
‘At the Dynamik,’ said Tristan, whose turn it was to speak. ‘You know it, I believe, sir.’
‘Very probably I do,’ said the GM. ‘ Look after her properly now. Mrs Blair,’ he leaned over and looked into my face, ‘besides being a lovely lady, is the mainstay of our fiction list.’
The others all bellowed with laughter in endorsement of this amusing and perceptive remark.
‘Mrs Blair will be very comfortable at the Dynamik,’ put in the Fucktotum in her efficient, colourless voice. ‘ It is the best hotel in Fartenwald, sir.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said the GM. ‘Only the best will do for our star author.’
‘Well, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’
Another burst of febrile laughter, the GM and I clearly had a double act of which to be proud. Now he bent over me again and murmured sibilantly in my ear: ‘My wife tells me you’re getting a touch racier these days.’
‘Is that so?’ I trilled, straight out of the knife box. ‘What about my books?’
At this they all laughed so much I feared for their safety, and the GM gave a cold-eyed, approving smile.
‘The research is rather taxing,’ I added daringly, carried away by my success. I thought the Erans would have a seizure.
In the wake of all this bonhomie, Tristan asked: ‘Were you looking for anyone in particular, sir?’
‘No, laddie, I came to present my compliments to Mrs Blair.’ The GM was notoriously bad at remembering the names of his employees. It was his chief weapon in the class war.
‘Will you be coming to Fartenwald, sir?’ enquired Chris.
The GM glanced at the Fucktotum, who shook her head. ‘I may very well do,’ he said capriciously, ‘not that it’s any concern of yours. You just get on with selling my best author’s book.’ And with that, the GM gave me a final bone-crunching clap on the shoulder, and left.
For a full minute we all sat and talked nonsense to one another in case he was crouched outside with his eye to the keyhole, spying on us. But when the tapir entered with coffee, revealing a coast that was clear, Chris lit a Marlboro with a trembling hand, and spoke for us all when he said: ‘Shit a brick. The man’s a sadist!’
That evening as I sat at the tripewriter, there seemed a special appositeness in what I wrote. For I was dealing with Maria’s flit, clad as a boy, to the Royalist camp at Bradbury, and I kept thinking of the GM’s lady wife, stretched out on her calfskin chesterfield in khaki shorts and knee socks, thrilling emphatically with my heroine.
Moonlight, cool and mysterious, I wrote, bathed the gardens of Kersey House in silver light as Maria slipped from the kitchen door and moved softly in the shadow of the wall, around the house. A sudden burst of coarse male laughter and singing, perilously close, reminded her of the extent of the danger. The Parliamentarians were sitting round their fires, carousing, celebrating a victory which must in truth seem already theirs. Their cannons were trained on the graceful towers of Kersey, their well-fed soldiery had but to wait until starvation brought low the proud and haughty Hawkhursts …
Maria bit her lip. She would not fail them. She would not fail Richard. Her chance of escape lay through the kitchen garden, and out by the old oaken door in the stone wall beyond. It would be a blind spot for the enemy, shielded as it was by a tall hedge of laurel. Once past there, she must walk boldly and put her trust in her new identity …
So lost was Maria in these fearful musings that she did not, till it was too late, see the tall figure which barred her way. Then suddenly her wrist was held, her arm bent agonisingly behind her, a rough hand covered her mouth, and a familiar voice snarled in her ear:
‘And what have we here, pray? Some clever young pup as wants to bat his pretty eyelashes at the Roundheads and get a coin or two for it? You need a lesson, tyke, and I’m the man to give it to you!’
And with this cavalier talk of treacherous arse-banditry I switched off the tripewriter and went to bed, feeling surprisingly chipper.
Chapter Ten
The days between my trip to London and Saturday, rich with the promise of the soccer tournament, passed in a haze of happy anticipation. Two distinctly encouraging developments had emerged from my meeting with the Erans. For one thing, the GM would not be present at the Buchfest; and for another, I should be staying alone at the grand and luxurious Dynamik. So provided I could persuade the Erans that I was too exhausted in the evenings for anything but the lightest and most workmanlike dinner, the hours of darkness would be mine to do with as I pleased. I took these to be omens, and my heart was consequently light.
The minor domestic irritants which would normally have used up a quite disproportionate amount of my energy, both mental and physical, scarcely affected my pulse rate. Did Gareth need new football boots before Saturday if he was not to suffer total public humiliation? I bought him the best Regis Sports had to offer, plus some machine-washable shin pads. Did Clara wish to enter for the local gymkhana, and to remind me of my responsibilities in that respect? I bearded the viragos of the saddlery in their den, procured tail bandages, stirrup leathers and sheepskin numnah, and furthermore booked the notoriously unreliable blacksmith, Terry Billings, to attend to Stu’s hooves some time in the next week. Did Damon want the Friday before the gymkhana off, because he and his new sound system had been hired for the occasion? I gladly granted it, and even congratulated him on this entrepreneurial coup.
Brenda showed up on Thursday, to introduce herself to Declan, as she put it. Before taking her into the garden I summoned Gareth and Clara and told them of the arrangement I had made concerning the book fair. In the face of these fascist tactics, and Brenda’s wall-to-wall boiler suit, they were, understandably, the embodiment of sullen, silent reproach, but it would have taken a wholesale insurrection and bloodshed to put me off my stroke today. I left them to their mutinous scowling and bore Brenda off into the garden where Declan was trawling the pond with a lawn rake.
As we approached he lifted the rake, laden with a noisome tangle of rank, black weed, leprous tennis balls and corroded dinky cars dating from Gareth’s infancy, and shook it in our faces like a cantankerous Neptune.
‘Will you take a look at this?’ he growled unnecessarily, ‘It’s a wonder anything lives down there with all this bloddy rubbish!’
‘You’re obviously doing a super job, Declan,’ I said. ‘ The fish won’t know themselves. I just wanted to introduce you to my neighbour Mrs Tunnel. She’ll be keeping an eye on the place when I’m in Germany at the end of the month.’
‘Hallo, Declan!’ said Brenda, extending her hand democratically, and being ignored for her pains.
‘Germany, is it?’ he said. ‘What do you want with Germany?’
‘I’m going to a book fair,’ I explained.
‘It’s one of the drawbacks of being a famous author,’ said Brenda. ‘Having to go off and leave your family to stay in expensive hotels abroad.’ She meant it as a joke, but to Declan it was deadly serious.
‘How long will you be gone for?’
‘Only three nights. The children will stay at Mrs Tunnel’s, they’ll feed the pets, and the dog will go to my friend in Barford.’ I hoped I was not traducing Bernice, but she had always accommodated Spot in the past and I assumed she would do so
again.
‘Yes, I’ll be popping down with a flask of something tasty,’ said Brenda. ‘And you must tell me what kind of cake you like,’ she added winsomely.
Declan hurled his forkful of sludge on to the ever-growing pile behind him and eyed Brenda. He had very few facial expressions, ranging from surly to homicidal, but now I saw one that was new to me, and I could not quite define it. If I had not known Declan so well I might almost have taken it for—but that was unthinkable.
His features settled back into their customary misanthropic folds. ‘What about him?’ he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the house. ‘ Mr Val Bloddy Doonican there?’
‘Oh. Yes,’ I said. ‘Brenda, there is Damon, the lad who cleans round for me. I’ll tell him just to come on the Thursday, shall I? Perhaps he could collect the key off you. It would be helpful if he could tidy up a bit while I’m away …’
Throughout this dissertation I was conscious of their separate gazes resting upon me, Declan’s full of scorn and suspicion, Brenda’s sisterly and enthusiastic.
‘Of course!’ she cried. ‘Just leave the whole operation in my hands. We’ll run a tight ship, won’t we, Declan? We’ll prove that she’s entirely dispensable.’
Again that furtive, unsettling expression flitted like a sewer rat across Declan’s face, before he grunted his agreement and returned to the pond.
‘Quite a character, isn’t he?’ said Brenda as I walked her to the gate.
‘Yes. Yes, he’s certainly that.’
‘What about the other one? Your cleaner?’
I was just about to say that I didn’t think a formal introduction would be of any value, when the window of Gareth’s room opened and a large rag-weave rug, obviously intended to be draped over the sill, flew out and landed on Brenda’s head, bearing her to the ground.
‘Oh dear,’ said Damon, looking down on his heaving handiwork. ‘Naughty one.’
I was still smirking about this as I got ready for the soccer tournament on Saturday morning. It had taken all Brenda’s new-found womanly poise not to give Damon the rollocking of a lifetime and disparage him for the inept, adolescent rat fink he undoubtedly was. Instead she had shrugged off the rug, bidden me farewell and strode off up the road as if being dive-bombed by carpets was an entirely unremarkable occurrence, and it was left to me to choke down my laughter and reprimand Damon as best I could.
It was a fine morning for the seven-a-sides. My responsibilities were few. As a committee member without portfolio I had only to display interest by showing up. Besides, I was official sponsor to Dr Ghikas, Great White Hope of the Toms.
In George’s absence, I planned to take a bottle of his best claret to donate to the raffle. I knew that the bottle would probably be won by some philistine OAP who would have preferred milk stout, and who would in all probability hand it back in favour of the economy-size drum of ant powder. But the gesture was in keeping with my mood.
The first match was due to kick off at one. Gareth set off for the recreation ground on his bike, a substantial packed lunch in his saddlebag, at ten-thirty.
‘You’ll be awfully early,’ I admonished. ‘What on earth will you do?’
‘Practise our skills,’ said Gareth.
‘Well, don’t get worn out before you have to play,’ I said lamely. What really concerned me was the amount of time that my children spent beyond the reach of my surveillance. I felt, rather vaguely, that I should be supervising them better, but on the other hand their independence and frequent absences from home were among their most endearing features.
‘You want us to practise, don’t you?’ said Gareth slyly. ‘I mean you don’t want us choking in front of Dr Ghikas, do you? He might change his mind.’
Having sent home this shaft, he pedalled off at break-neck speed. I recalled the scene that my son had witnessed through the window the night of the dinner party, and reminded myself to be careful.
Clara was still at the kitchen table, consuming slice after slice of white toast and pilchard paste. She ran on the sort of fuel that would have made less robust systems silt up and grind to a halt in days.
‘What are your plans for today?’ I asked.
She shrugged. It was her star gesture. Only when she had set the tone of the exchange with this maddening hunch of her shoulders did she venture speech. ‘Riding.’
‘Well listen, I shall be round at the football over lunchtime, do you want to join me there for a picnic?’
She looked at me as if I’d suggested a course in old-time ballroom dancing. ‘ I don’t know,’ she said. She pronounced it like ‘Ivanhoe’.
‘Clara, you have to eat!’
‘I can make a sandwich here, Mum.’ The use of my handle was, I knew, intended to be conciliatory, and I accepted it as such. After all, I didn’t really want her with me.
‘Okay, but be good now,’ I said. ‘And if you need me you know where I am.’
‘Right.’ She sounded suddenly, curiously brighter, as though she had emerged victorious after complex negotiations, though our exchange had been cryptic to a degree. I looked at her more closely.
‘Please be sensible.’
She widened her eyes. ‘Did I say something?’
I decided, just for once, to take her on her face value, and went upstairs to prepare myself for Constantine on the touchline.
When I arrived at the rec at twelve-thirty I had taken considerable pains to look as though I had taken no pains whatever. I was, I fancied, tousle-haired, fresh-faced, and casually dressed in primrose yellow running shorts and matching T-shirt, and yellow and white trainers without socks. I had abandoned a handbag in favour of a straw holdall which would carry the equipment for maintaining this look throughout the day, plus provisions, and the bottle of claret.
The nerve centre of the operation was Robbo Makepeace’s tent and caravan, positioned to one side of the village hall. In the hall itself were various subsidiary attractions such as the raffle, the soi-disant Crazy Horse Saloon administered by the Nutkins (frankfurters, bridge rolls and the inevitable beans), tea, coffee and squash courtesy of Baba Moorcroft, and a créche run by the rector’s wife, Dilly Chittenden. The créche was like a cake stall in reverse—it filled up within half an hour of the start—and already Dilly, a cheerful well-turned-out blonde, was barely visible above a heaving swarm of infants.
As I entered the hall to deliver my bottle I noted that everything was proceeding, if not according to plan, at least according to precedent. The visiting teams of Under Fourteens were dotted here and there on the rec like colourful groups of Halma men, being subjected to pep talks by their managers. Squads of rival parent-supporters setting up camp round the periphery eyed each other with ill-disguised fear, loathing and contempt. The host team were still in the changing room with Brian Jolliffe, whose swan song this was. Robbo was testing the public address system with a series of sounds like a rogue elephant. Eric Chittenden, wearing his clerical collar to pre-empt the inevitable accusations of cheating which would be hurled in the heat of the moment, was marking out the results board under the icy gaze of the opposition secretaries.
In fact he was not the only one in uniform. The occasion seemed to have brought out the role-player in several people. In the Makepeace caravan I spotted Akela, whose job it was to deal with injuries and complaints (though all but the most serious tended to melt in the heat of her gaze) and she too was fully whistled and woggled. In the hall, when I entered, it was hard at first to see anything through the pall of smoke from the Crazy Horse Saloon, but as I grew accustomed to the atmosphere I discerned Stan and Nita, both dressed like the chorus in Oklahoma! Or at least, Nita was, but on mature reflection Stan looked more like Bob Hope in Paleface, with bulbous sheepskin chaps and an oddly high, domed stetson.
I waved to them, to Dilly and to Baba, and made my way to the raffle table, presided over by Tanya Lowe. Sukey lay beneath the table, licking her anus with mournful, heavy-lidded relish.
‘Hallo, Tanya,’ I
said, ‘I’ve brought something for you.’
She took George’s claret and glanced at the label. ‘Somebody’ll enjoy a glass of that, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she said doubtfully.
The other prizes ranged from bath salts, through ant powder and hand cream, to tonic wine. The claret, when set down amid these more plebian offerings, had the awkward look of a Tory candidate canvassing a council estate.
‘How did it go with the doctor?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘He’s coming today. And he will manage the team next season.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Oh …’ I shrugged airily. ‘He’s okay. I mean—’ Fortunately I was prevented from perjuring myself further by the arrival of Tanya’s son, Lance. Lance Lowe, at the age of sixteen, was like some hideous heavy in a low-budget Western, complete with premature beer-belly, home-rolled cigarette, cuban heels and lumbering, Mitchumesque walk. Like all baddies, he was usually to be found at the centre of a flotilla of runtish acolytes, anxious to be walked over rather than sought out for arbitrary punishment. Today, ominously, he was alone. Beneath the table Sukey growled.
‘Hallo, son,’ said Tanya.
‘Going to buy some tickets, Lance?’ I asked.
‘Nah.’ He surveyed the prizes on display. ‘Daht it.’ I felt for poor Tanya. No wonder she turned up at all the committee meetings. But even her look of despairing supplication was not enough to keep me at her side when Constantine might already have arrived.
‘Cheerio, Tanya,’ I said. ‘See you later.’
Outside things were getting under way. The Tomahawks had finally emerged from the dressing room and were about to play on pitch one, that nearest the village hall. Robbo had temporarily abandoned the public address system to arbitrate in a dispute near the results board. Brian Jolliffe stood on the touchline with his bucket, sponge and first-aid box, and Trevor Tunnel, all in black less heavily bandaged than when I’d last met him, was about to referee.
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