by Jenny Colgan
‘Not fall in love with your dog,’ said Arthur.
‘I am NOT!’
Arthur backed away. ‘Party! Party! Beer!’ he said, holding up conciliatory hands.
Sven sniffed.
‘Lots of lovely beer …’
‘And punch,’ said Cathy.
‘What are we doing?’ said Gwyneth again.
‘We’re knocking on doors to see if people will take lights,’ said Rafe, looking through his very optimistic artist’s illustration of street after street of happy people looking up at their illuminated marvels.
‘And sometimes they give us food,’ said Sven. Sandwiches backed him up. Man and dog were doing extremely well on this mission. Sandwiches was in danger of getting as fat as his master. Sven was also showing as much enthusiasm for this as anything else so far; Arthur suspected that a corner of his mind truly believed that somewhere, out there, was a naked nymphomaniac waiting for someone – anyone – to come to the door.
Rafe and Gwyneth, on the other hand, were doing slightly less well.
‘What if they think we’re from some weird religious sect out to kidnap their brains?’
‘Tell them you’re not.’
‘That’s exactly what someone from a weird kidnapping religious sect would do.’
An old woman barged up to them in the street with a shopping basket pushed out in front of her. She was tiny and mean-looking. ‘Excuse me, are you from the council?’
‘Um … yes, I suppose so, kind of …’ said Rafe. Gwyneth shook her head furiously.
‘Well, when are you going to do something about my heating?’
‘About your what?’
‘It’s my cats, you see. It’s too cold for them.’
‘No, actually, we’re not from the … um, cold cat department.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ she said cryptically.
‘We wondered if you might like to put up some lights,’ said Rafe. ‘To decorate the house next year.’
‘What?’
‘We’re trying to light up the street. Jolly things up a bit.’
‘Isn’t that what them streetlights are for? And I’ll tell you another thing, Mr Bloody Politician, my council tax is an absolute disgrace.’
‘So, if we provided you with the lights and the electricity …’
‘You’re going to pay for my electricity?’
‘Um, some of it …’
The old lady’s eyes narrowed. ‘Come in and have some tea.’
‘You realize if we promise free electricity to people, our budget is going to overshoot by about fifteen squillion pounds?’ Gwyneth pointed out to Rafe as they walked down the old lady’s garden path.
‘But she was so lovely!’
‘Yes, because you stroked her cats and told her you were going to give her all the money. Which we’re not.’
Rafe gave her a puppyish look.
‘Don’t try that look on me. I’ve played with the experts: Sandwiches can’t get a morsel out of me.’
‘But we’re doing …’
‘Good, yes I realize, Sir Lancelot.’
He smiled and bowed deeply. ‘And you ma’am …’
She laughed. ‘Yes, that’s exactly the kind of behaviour we need in a suburban street in Coventry.’
Eyes flashing, he dashed off ahead to a puddle and made to take off his coat and lay it on the ground.
‘Wrong period entirely.’
‘I’d still do it.’
‘I’d still ignore it.’
He sighed and picked up his jacket.
‘Next house, then?’
‘Next house.’
But they bumped into Sven, who’d already sorted it out and was waving a cheery goodbye.
‘So you’re saying, just for putting on my lights I can pat your dog whenever I like?’ said his old lady.
‘Yup.’
Their moods, however, darkened as they went back to the office, looking at the huge pile of paperwork which continued to descend on them daily; endless forms and rules and specifications for the paper-devouring burghers of Brussels.
Arthur was squinting at a brochure through one eye. He smiled wryly.
‘Why are you smiling?’ said Sven grumpily.
‘Nothing. Just something ironic, that’s all.’
‘Ooh, ironic. Very clever. What?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I wouldn’t understand? I will tell you, I am the absolute expert at the ironic quip.’
‘Wow. Ironically, in trying to prove how much you understand irony, you’ve done quite the opposite.’
‘I knew that.’
‘No you didn’t!’
‘Dickhead,’ said Sven, quietly, leaving Arthur time to get back to his brochure, which had turned up on his desk out of nowhere. It was for an out of town evening attraction called ‘Mediaeval KNIGHTS!!!!!’ It promised jousting, wenches, ale and large hunks of roasted meats. Arthur looked at it, smiling. He could tell them a thing or two about ancient knights … except, of course, he couldn’t really. Ever since Lynne’s faintly alarming revelation, he’d rather put it to the back of his mind. Suddenly, he wondered where Lynne was. It was hardly fair. Didn’t really justify her salary.
‘Marcus!’ he shouted. ‘What do we pay the company therapist?’
‘There isn’t a company therapist,’ said Marcus, without breaking concentration with Rafe.
Of course not. Arthur looked around the office, noticing the charts, maps, diagrams … All the way out into the open-plan area there was a general sense of purpose, of people getting on with doing busy things in a useful way. He felt a quiet sense of pride. In the corner, Rafe was arguing with Marcus yet again about the possibility of a small railway system. Marcus’s time-honoured automatic ‘no’ to everything was being steadily worn down, Arthur noticed, by Rafe’s boundless and seemingly endless enthusiasm, not to mention the train set that was still running round the room, usually closely followed by Sandwiches. Gwyneth had a studied and serious look on her face as she put together the official bid papers. They’d decided to mostly let her do those, as she had an ability – rare in this office – to handle documents without getting jam on them.
He looked round and noticed Cathy and the temp at the door of the boardroom. They seemed to be arguing with someone. He caught a glimpse of something colourful and wandered over.
Why were there two jesters in full motley juggling brightly coloured batons over the top of the office? Everyone had stopped work to watch them.
‘Um, what’s this?’
One of the jesters stopped immediately and, without blinking, the other caught eight clubs with a flash of his wrist. Arthur shook his head.
‘Who are these people?’
‘The Wandering Jesters at your service,’ said the nearest man, bowing low from the waist until his bells touched the floor.
‘Oh God, is it somebody’s birthday?’ said Arthur, looking around. ‘Is this man about to start taking his clothes off?’
‘No, no,’ said the man. ‘We go where we are needed and we hear you have a fair?’
‘What?’ said Arthur. ‘Well, maybe … possibly … NEXT YEAR!’
Both jesters made elaborate faces of misery. ‘But you shall need us again, yes?’
The second jester was looking worriedly behind him. Arthur followed his gaze. Filing in was a long collection of the most oddly dressed people, attired mainly in hessian. On a word from the one at the front, they all brought out strange-looking instruments and, on a count of three, began to play a beguiling tune.
Gwyneth and Sven joined Arthur in the doorway.
‘Are those minstrels?’ said Gwyneth.
‘I don’t know,’ said Arthur. ‘Depends whether they melt in your mouth or your hand.’
‘Who do you think they were?’ asked Gwyneth, once they’d finally been persuaded to leave (and after an encore of ‘Greensleeves’).
‘New Age travellers, I expect,’ said Marcus spiffily. ‘
They looked absolutely filthy.’
‘Don’t be … oh,’ said Gwyneth. ‘Yeah, I suppose they would be filthy, eh?’
Arthur, however, was still looking around the office. People were actually coming to him! Word was getting around! With a start, he realized he liked his job.
Well, they deserved a decent party. And, even if it was only a private joke for him, he reckoned Mediaeval Knights was the kind of place to be. And hopefully Gwyneth would be the only wench for him.
‘Did you send it to them?’ Ross asked lazily. Fay nodded.
‘Do you think it’s the kind of thing they’ll go for?’
‘He will,’ she said firmly. ‘He was always complaining about the Christmas party, and why couldn’t they go to such and such. Plus, he loves knights and mediaeval things.’
‘Great,’ said Ross, rubbing his hands together. ‘Ooh, I am looking forward to this so much.’
He glanced at the calendar on his wall. ‘Let’s see – six weeks till presentation day, huh?’
Dave nodded dutifully.
‘But Arthur doesn’t know that. Howard’s done his stuff, right?’
Dave nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again just to be sure.
‘Right. This’ll rile them. It’s psychological warfare, innit?’
‘What are you then, some kind of warlord?’ said Fay.
Ross leaned over suddenly and thumped the table, hard. ‘Yeah!’ he said loudly. ‘Yeah, I bloody am. This is about territory, darling. This is about land, and money and power, and you either fight for that or you don’t. Okay?’
‘It seems quite an extreme form of public sector management, that’s all.’
Ross narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you being funny?’
‘No,’ said Fay instantly, looking at the floor.
‘Good. Dress up. It’s about intimidating the fuck out of them. By the time we’re done, they’ll be wishing they’d never heard of European City of Culture.’
Chapter Ten
There was a palpable air of excitement in the office. Partly it was because they were closing at four thirty to allow people time to get changed for the evening, partly because a light covering of snow had fallen the previous evening, rendering their world slightly less ugly than it had been before, and partly because Sandwiches was wearing his tuxedo early, because he was so looking forward to the party.
Arthur smiled up at Gwyneth as she walked into the room and she smiled back. She’d been reporting in London and he hadn’t had much time to spend with her, but the report was really coming on: they were shaping up to have a strong case. And every time he saw her, his heart skipped a beat like a teenager.
‘Hey baby cakes.’
‘Baby cakes? Who are you, Philip Marlowe?’
‘Well, this beautiful broad walked into my office like a ray of sunshine in a deadly tomb …’
She smiled and rapped him on the head. ‘Thank you. Is this because I’m holding some draft reports in my hand?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me if I’d like to investigate a case?’
‘Yeah, a briefcase. Here, read these.’ She took them off to her desk.
Arthur scrunched his nose up as Sven wandered in. He looked uncharacteristically sheepish as he sidled up to Arthur.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Arthur. ‘You’ve run out of X Men t-shirts?’
Sven made a face. ‘Can’t you ever be serious?’ he said grumpily.
‘What are you talking about? You’re the one put here on earth to make my life hell!’
Sven stared at the floor.
‘Okay, okay. Caring boss mode. What’s the matter.’
‘Um … will there … are there going to be girls at this party tonight?’
Arthur stared at him. ‘Sven, it’s the office party!’
‘Yeah, I know …’
‘So, it’ll be full of the women you see around you, every day.’
‘Yeah, but they’ll be covered in glitter!’
‘Relax. What are you going to wear?’
‘Um, my Wolverine t-shirt.’
Gwyneth wandered back over. ‘How come Sandwiches gets a tux and you’re going to wear a t-shirt?’
‘He looks better than me in one.’
‘Well, that’s true. But still, why don’t you tart yourself up a bit? You never know, the temp looks pretty foxy when she’s done up.’
Sven squinted. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Of course! I thought Scandinavian men were meant to be …’ Gwyneth was casting around for something romantic to say, but she remembered what she meant was, ‘really tall and handsome’ and there was absolutely no universe in which that applied right at the moment. ‘Kind and fascinating,’ she finished, patting him on the arm.
‘Who are you talking about?’ said the temp, who was walking past. ‘Nobody like that works here. By the way, Gwyneth, do you know if anyone cute is going to this thing tonight? Maybe from another department or something?’
‘Um,’ said Gwyneth. Sven sagged slightly.
The Mediaeval Knights restaurant was in a vast complex off the A250 which also housed a bowling alley and a three-hundred-and-forty screen cinema. Arthur had arranged people carriers to transport everyone, so he didn’t have to worry about drink drivers – there was absolutely no other way to arrive. The place had so much flat car park around it, it looked like a massive corrugated shed on the surface of the moon.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Gwyneth asked Arthur, tucking her hand into his elbow as they fought their way, eyes streaming, across the wind-scape. Teenagers were taking it in turns to balance on their skateboards and shout obscenities loudly at one another. Some were swigging from enormous bottles of cider, their eyes distracted and aimless.
‘Yeah,’ said Arthur. ‘I think so.’
Round the back of the building, there was a small ditch dug into the ground. A piece of corrugated iron had been placed over the top and, unless his eyes were deceiving him, Arthur noticed there were two of the jugglers he’d had to shoo out of the office the other day, hanging around. They saw them too and bowed low again.
‘Well met, sir!’ they called out as the party proceeded over the aluminium grate. Arthur smiled back at them.
‘There’s obviously more jester work around than I thought,’ he whispered to Gwyneth.
‘I’m not surprised they’d rather work for us than out in this wasteland.’
‘We’re going to ask them to work in the middle of a river.’
‘Yes, well, I suppose …’
‘What’s that smell?’ said Sven.
‘You know, Sven, if they made a film about your life it would be called “What’s that smell?”,’ said Marcus, who looked extremely neat and tidy in a sharp, shiny suit and immaculately tied bow tie.
‘No, no,’ said Sven. Sandwiches was snuffling about excitedly. ‘I mean it.’
Gwyneth shook her head. ‘You lot are such a bunch of city lovers, she said. ‘Although I realize that isn’t necessarily a bad thing to be, given our jobs … but it’s obviously horses. There are big pictures of them all over the brochure!’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Rafe, bringing up the rear. ‘Landlubbers.’
As he spoke, they entered a huge hall lit by enormous braziers. It was so large – and dark – that the corners of the room had completely faded away. There was an enormous roaring fire on one side wall, and they moved towards it instinctively after the cold outside. Two long, rough-hewn tables had been set up near the fire, each laid for a large number of people. At the other end of the hall, was a low wooden wall dividing the dining area from a large space with a dirt floor, covered in straw, like an arena. To the far side was an inn-like bar. Even Arthur was impressed.
‘Wow!’ said Cathy. ‘It’s like olden times!’
‘Good evening, fine gentlemen and fair ladies!’
A woman appeared in front of them with an extremely highly hoisted bosom bursting out of her loosely laced period dress.
The men goggl
ed at her. The women checked out her underwiring.
‘Can I take your coats?’ said the wench, without quite so much mediaeval panache. ‘Cocktail?’
Arthur looked around at the faces seated at their long wooden table, made ruddy by the fire and the odd cider ale that was being served as part of the ‘Christmas package’ as mead, but which tasted rather more like … well, flat snakebite. Nobody seemed to be complaining, though. And a smell of roasting meat had overtaken that of the horses, although he suspected the rotating pig in the fireplace was only for show. Well, he hoped that was the case. He suddenly felt a warm feeling of benevolence creep over him. This was his team. Gwyneth was on his left hand, Rafe on his right. Sven and Sandwiches were contentedly chewing their way through the contents of the bread basket at the other end of the table. Marcus was looking worried and Cathy was being nice to him.
Arthur stood up. ‘Friends and colleagues,’ he started.
‘Good Lord, is he drunk already?’ somebody said, but they were quickly shushed.
‘I just wanted to say …’ He looked around, suddenly, suspiciously, then smiled. ‘Actually, the last time we all got together for a drink, I got confronted by –’
‘Your arch-nemesis?’ said Ross, stepping in from the shadows by the bar.
‘Aw, fuckit,’ said Arthur.
‘What are you doing here?’ Arthur asked sullenly. ‘Desperate for another punching?’
‘Oh, I’m not so worried about that,’ said Ross. ‘More indulging yourself at the expense of local people, eh? Howard?’
Howard the journalist stepped forward, smiled apologetically and took a big picture of the table with the pig on a spit clearly visible behind them.
‘Sorry,’ he mugged apologetically. Then, ‘Ow! That dog’s biting me on the leg again!’
‘I would love to say “what a coincidence” at this point,’ said Arthur. ‘But it would be pointless, wouldn’t it?’
‘Just need the right friends, Art,’ said Ross, as his party sat at the next long wooden table.
‘Oh God, have you been sleeping with people again?’ said Gwyneth.
‘No!’ said Arthur.
Ross picked up a haunch of what could have been venison, and gnawed it roughly.