Working Wonders

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Gwyneth, shaking her head.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Ross sat back in his chair and took a long slug of mead. ‘I just can’t get over how much I’m looking forward to the day I get to turn up at your offices and tell you you’re all out of a job. It pleases me so. It doesn’t seem right that I should be the only one who knows what that’s like.’

  ‘It was a while ago. So get over it,’ said Arthur.

  Ross pulled forward Fay, who’d been loitering in the shadows. She looked wan and tired. Arthur was shocked at the sight of her.

  ‘Hey,’ he said quietly. She didn’t reply, but sat timidly on Ross’s knee.

  ‘Yes, we’re all getting over things,’ said Ross. ‘Anyway, this isn’t about revenge.’

  Sven and Sandwiches sniffed at the same time.

  ‘There’s only one big troughful of Euro money, my friend, and I’m sure it’s going to be ours.’

  ‘What would you do with it?’ asked Rafe.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t build a fucking tramline,’ said Ross.

  Rafe looked amazed. ‘But that hasn’t even …’ He shook his head. ‘That’s incredible.’

  Ross and Dave Gorman sniggered to themselves.

  ‘So, are you looking forward to the twenty-sixth of January, then?’ said Ross, rudely gesturing to the waitress for more drink.

  ‘What happens on January twenty-sixth?’ asked Gwyneth, wishing she hadn’t had to.

  ‘Ooh, don’t you know?’ said Dave, sniggering immediately. The group looked at each other.

  ‘Yes we do,’ said Sven suddenly, as another waitress came round. ‘It’s going to be shit. Can I have beef – um, haunch, please? And, do you do onion rings?’

  ‘Shit for you,’ said Ross.

  Oh, God, thought Arthur. He’s probably about to start cleaning his nails with a knife.

  Ross picked up the knife. ‘Of course, there’s whether you think the application presentation date is important at all.’

  Only the background of lutes stopped total silence from falling.

  ‘Ignore him,’ said Gwyneth. ‘He’s talking out of his arse.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Arthur.

  Gwyneth shrugged. ‘I just supposed they’d tell us eventually … at the same time.’

  Yup, there it goes, thought Arthur, as the knife went under Ross’s thumbnail. He’s loving this. And: ‘Why didn’t we know? WHY?’

  ‘You should get your notification in … two or three days. Just in time for the Christmas holidays! Such a shame you haven’t been able to work on it for a few weeks like us.’

  ‘You’ve known for weeks?’ Gwyneth couldn’t help it. ‘Um, just a salad for me thanks.’

  ‘Not officially, no. In fact, I’d deny that anywhere. Big affair, I believe. Flying all sorts of delegates in from Brussels to hear what you’ve got to say. Have you anything to say?’

  ‘More than you, I bet,’ said Rafe. ‘Yeah, the chicken, thanks very much.’

  ‘Really? What do you know about our plans, then?’

  Arthur’s team shuffled and looked at their plates. Oh God, he’s going to do a big fake evil laugh, thought Arthur in despair.

  ‘Bwa ha ha!’ shouted Ross. ‘Oh, this is going to be fun. I’ll have the chicken too, wench.’

  Just as he said this, the lights went down and the show began.

  Fuming, Arthur stared into the gloom. Gwyneth was whispering frantically at him and trying to take notes in the dark. Suddenly there was a huge yell, an enormous commotion, and two doors at the end of the barn opened up and two horses charged through. The audience gasped.

  Seated on the horses were two knights, one wearing black insignia, one in white. They cantered to opposite sides of the arena, then the horses stood stock-still, and on walked people dressed as a king, a queen, and various courtiers. The jugglers were back, joined by a fire-eater, and the jester was dancing around, his bells ringing in the sand. The white knight dismounted and bowed low to the party, but the black knight (who, with his visor closed, did actually look quite frightening) continued to stare straight ahead. Catching on quickly, the crowd booed him loudly.

  ‘Fair ladies and noble gentlemen,’ said the king figure.

  ‘I’m glad this isn’t going to be really cheesy or anything,’ whispered Gwyneth. ‘Guys, we need to go and sort out dates. Now!’ Arthur agreed.

  ‘But it’s our party!’ said Cathy, looking stricken.

  ‘And he’s the king! Ssh,’ said Sven, who looked rapt.

  ‘I can’t believe an out-of-work actor dressed up in tin foil has more authority over Sven than I have,’ whispered Arthur crossly.

  ‘Welcome to our humble hall. We trust you are feasting well?’

  ‘Yeah!’ the audience roared and cheered.

  ‘Actually, my salad is a bit disappointing,’ said Gwyneth.

  ‘That’s because you should be here to eat MEAT,’ said Sven. ‘Like real men.’

  ‘Is this the bit where you say “Hitler was a … ”’

  ‘Hitler was a vegetarian, you know,’ said Sven.

  Gwyneth closed her eyes. ‘So, there’s a causal link between me eating lettuce and invading Poland, is that the point you’re trying to make?’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘You’re just saying that I want to commit genocide because I eat tomatoes.’

  The white knight was suddenly standing directly in front of their table.

  ‘My lord!’ he shouted behind him to the king figure, who had finished welcoming everybody and was settled back, his queen beside him, each on a large gold-sprayed throne. ‘I think I have found a talkative shrew, yes?’

  Everybody laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sven.

  ‘What?’ said Gwyneth crossly.

  ‘I will be your liege, milady, if you’ll let me.’

  Gwyneth looked at Arthur. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘I think he wants to be your champion,’ said Arthur. ‘He’ll joust for you.’

  ‘I think NOT!’ said Gwyneth loudly. Tuts ran around the room. Obviously there were more than a few ladies who would be quite happy for a knight on a white charger to single them out.

  The knight, meanwhile, had bowed low and was waiting for an answer.

  ‘What do I have to do? I disapprove of blood sports.’

  ‘It’s not to the death,’ said Arthur. ‘Is it?’

  ‘You have to give him something,’ said Rafe. ‘A token that he can carry into battle.’

  Gwyneth made a face. ‘I think I’ve got my mace in my handbag.’

  ‘Don’t you carry a handkerchief?’

  ‘Kleenex?’

  ‘Give him your scarf.’ Gwyneth had a stylishly-knotted scarf around her neck.

  ‘Bugger off! This is silk, and I’d rather not have it smelling of horse, thank you.’

  Arthur winced. ‘Please. Or I think the audience is going to lynch us.’

  There was definitely a murmur of discontent coming from the rows of people behind them.

  ‘Okay,’ said Gwyneth. She untangled the scarf and handed it over the barrier to the knight, who held it up dramatically, kissed it and tied it securely to his shield.

  ‘Goodbye forever, scarf,’ said Gwyneth.

  ‘Splendid,’ said the king. ‘Now …’

  ‘’Ang on,’ said a loud and unmistakable voice, suddenly. The king looked around, confused.

  ‘If ’e gets to fight for someone and have a bunch of saps cheering him on, we want the black knight.’

  ‘Ooooh!’ said a jester. ‘Prithee a proper challenge, in faith.’

  A mutter ran through the crowd. Someone could distinctly be heard saying, ‘God, we’re going to be here all night.’

  They soon hushed, however, as the black knight began to approach Ross’s table. He didn’t rush, but walked slowly over. The menace was actually palpable.

  He’s good, Arthur found himself thinking. The king was looking this way and that, quite pertu
rbed. The black knight stood in front of Ross’s party, who were all baying like maniacs. He didn’t raise his visor, and stood stock-still.

  ‘Okay,’ said Ross. ‘Knock out that big pussy and I’ll give you a hundred quid. Not some sodding scarf.’

  ‘Um,’ said the king, ‘I’m not sure we’re allowed … I mean, I decree that there will be no gaming at this evening of entertainment.’

  Ross sneered. ‘Okay, forget it,’ he said, but winked clearly at the knight.

  ‘Give him your tie, you big poof!’

  ‘Sven, shut it,’ said Arthur in a loud whisper. Ross whipped around, looking for where the slur had come from, but quickly refocused on the matter in hand.

  ‘Okay,’ he said.

  The knight barely nodded his head in response.

  ‘Let’s go!’ said Ross, turning to his table and raising his arms. They all yelped loudly in response.

  The king raised his hand as the riders got on their horses and retreated to the dark corners of the barn.

  ‘The joust!’ he said. ‘Who will be unseated in this tournament?’

  ‘I bet,’ said Sven carefully, ‘it looks like the guy in white is going to lose, but then in the end he grabs the victory back just in the nick of time.’

  Gwyneth found her heart was beating quite strongly in her chest. ‘Ooh, I’m excited,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because you’re anxious about your champion,’ said Rafe.

  ‘No, I’m not. Sven said he’s going to be fine and that’s good enough for me.’

  Sven basked in this unusual appreciation of his powers.

  ‘The knights will joust,’ intoned the king, ‘and the first man to be thrown three times will be declared the loser and banished … from the salad bar!’

  The room cheered and looked excited.

  The queen stood up and held her handkerchief up high, then, suddenly, dropped it.

  The room went completely silent. Then suddenly, the horses started to move, their hooves rumbling over the sand. Every eye was fixed on them, as the riders drew closer and closer together from either end of the vast hangar. The black knight was hunched over on his mount, his hand clasping the lance firmly. The white rider looked calmer, sitting upright in the saddle and urging the horse on with his spurs.

  ‘Go, Whitey!’ said Gwyneth. ‘Oh God, that sounds really awful, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe “Go Honky”,’ said Arthur.

  ‘I don’t think they had equal opportunities in the middle ages,’ said Rafe. ‘A chance for death for everyone!’

  But they were no longer listening to him. The hooves thundered louder and louder and …

  ‘FFTHHH!’ They could hear the whistle in the wind as, right in front of their table, the two long poles just missed each other. Immediately, the two horses were past each other. The black rider pulled his up with a snort and immediately turned round. The white knight let his canter on for a little, then abruptly turned her round, too. The large white mare whinnied, and reared up.

  ‘Ooh,’ murmured the crowd.

  The two rode at each other again, this time, it seemed, much more quickly. There was a resounding ‘smack’ as they met, the clash of the wooden poles on the wooden shields, and suddenly, the black rider had pitched forward in a somersault and landed in the sand, sending up clouds of dust.

  ‘Yay!’ shouted Sven. ‘In your face, Rossy-boy!’

  Ross turned round and for a second looked like he was about to stand up. Sven was giving him the Vs. But he contented himself with sticking up his middle finger, just as the rider got up and started to dust himself off. He growled and shook his fist at the crowd, who excitedly booed him back. He mounted his horse with a toss of his head and galloped back to the end of the arena, then he steadied himself and his horse. Silence fell again.

  ‘This time,’ whispered Sven, ‘the white rider will go down. Then he’ll go down again. But it’ll be all right, he’ll stage a triumphant comeback.’

  ‘I think they’re waiting for a moody silence,’ whispered Arthur.

  ‘Ooh, sorry,’ said Sven. Sandwiches was sitting very still on his lap, watching the proceedings with interest.

  This time, there was a drum roll from the minstrels, who built up to a crescendo, then watched as the knights launched themselves forward again.

  Arthur gnawed on a chicken leg and looked at the scene through half-shut eyes. If he forgot the corrugated iron, and the nasty fake Rolex watches and synthetic fibres at the surrounding tables, there was something soothing to his soul in the smell of the horses, the sound of their hooves and the minstrels, the colours flashing past. It felt very very right, somehow.

  ‘My time,’ he said to himself.

  ‘Your what?’ said Gwyneth, not taking her eyes off the approaching battle.

  ‘Did I just … nothing … OOF!’ said Arthur, as the black knight thwacked the white knight’s shield with an almighty crack. The white knight seemed to fall to the ground in slow motion, bouncing off his armour.

  ‘That’s got to hurt,’ observed Sven. ‘Unless they’re all padded up underneath, like those people who wear fat suits.’

  ‘Ooh, are you wearing a fat suit?’ asked Cathy innocently.

  ‘NO!’

  Sven appeared to be right, however, as the rider was soon on his feet again. He turned towards Gwyneth and bowed low.

  ‘Well,’ said Gwyneth. She leaned forward and held out her hand so the knight could raise it and kiss it.

  Arthur didn’t like this at all.

  As Sven had predicted, the next two rounds ended in a draw – a tumble for each knight. The drum rolls were now growing steadily louder, as the two drew apart to the furthest end of the arena for their final charge and confrontation. The whole audience was banging their pewter tankards on the wooden tables, and the noise was deafening.

  ‘FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!’ The chant was started up at Ross’s table. The king looked anxiously at them to be quiet, but they drank more mead and did not deign to notice. Even the riders looked nervous – the white knight was tugging at his spur.

  The drumming grew to a great crescendo, then, for the final time, the queen brought down her arm, and the horses reared up.

  ‘GO! GO! GO!’ Everyone in the place was screaming their heads off for their favourite. Now they were a hundred feet apart … now seventy … the horses’ hooves were a blur on the dusty floor, the sound of their breathing was heavy in the air, and by the light from the braziers, Arthur could see sweat shining on their flanks.

  The noise from the hooves was immense, and Arthur sat back, waiting to engage in a victory whose outcome was already assured.

  It didn’t come.

  From nowhere, a pace or two before the weapons should normally meet, the black rider leaned even further forward in the saddle, and cracked his lance clean across the other rider’s helmet.

  The white knight was thrown through the air, before landing, motionless, on the ground.

  For a second, everyone in the audience was still, expecting this to be a further part of the entertainment. Then the king threw up his hands and ran forward.

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’ he shouted, in a remarkably un-regal manner.

  The white knight lay on the ground, out cold. Rafe noticed the black rider and Ross were staring at each other. It was impossible to tell, but it looked as if the dark knight might have been winking.

  Without a thought, Rafe threw himself over the barrier between the tables and the arena.

  The whole table stood up.

  ‘What the hell’s he doing?’ said Arthur. The rest stood there with their mouths open. Rafe ran towards the white horse, grabbed the lance from the ground where it had fallen, and swung himself up and into the saddle like he was born to it.

  ‘Hey!’ Gwyneth was staring at Rafe. He pulled back the bridle and turned the horse to the far end of the arena. The crowd was going crazy, stamping their feet and screeching. The king was desperately trying to stop proceedings and
stay out of the way of the horses. Meanwhile, the white knight had started to stir, and was carried to the side.

  Rafe wheeled the horse round and threw up his hand at the black knight. ‘And now me, yes?’

  The black knight, no longer sniggering, stared straight back at Rafe. Then, slowly, he raised his lance to his side.

  A gasp ran through the crowd – a real one now, not just entering into the fun of watching a show.

  ‘He’s crazy,’ said Arthur. ‘He’s not wearing armour or anything. He could get himself killed!’

  But it was too late. This time there was no gesture from the queen, but at some unheard signal, both men reared up on their horses and took off towards each other at a gallop.

  Gwyneth hid her head in her hands. ‘I can’t watch.’

  ‘He’s mad,’ Arthur was saying again, standing up. ‘STOP!!’

  From the side, the white knight struggled to his feet. He held up his shield, then, as Rafe bore down past him in a blur of motion, tossed it towards the huge horse. Amazingly, Rafe reached down a long arm and scooped up the shield, then stood up in the saddle, and extended his lancing arm …

  There was a cracking noise of wood against wood, and in the jumble of colours and horses in the middle of the arena it was difficult to see what had happened – until, almost in slow motion, and with a strange sort of grace, the black knight slowly tumbled down from his horse, metal scraping against metal as he came to rest on the ground.

  Ross let out a chain of expletives that could have turned the white flames blue.

  There was a huge storm of cheering. Rafe’s face was very red, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had done. Very gently, he patted the horse and slipped down. Then, walking towards the front of the arena, he slipped the scarf from around the shield. Coming closer, he gently and carefully tied it round Gwyneth’s neck as she looked up at him.

  ‘My lady,’ he said. Then he went even redder, and turned away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gwyneth was wandering down by the river, lost in a dream. The frost patterns on the ground were enchanting and, from a primary school down the road, there was the sound of tentatively played Christmas carols. Just now, ‘Torches! Torches!’ was ringing out with some gusto, along with a little off-time triangle.