by David Nobbs
Ali, Oli and the doctor helped to raise Ellie slowly from the settee. The members of the band, who had slipped in on their right while everybody was listening to the speeches, struck up and set off, very very slowly, with their great favourite, ‘The Departure of the Queen of Sheba’. It had never seemed as appropriate as on this day. Behind them Ellie, Ali and Oli resumed their walk, with Sally just behind them, and the doctor keeping a watchful eye in the rear.
Just as the band began to march through Georgia – their repertoire was not huge – Sally remembered where she had seen the lorry before. In Devon, near the sea. It had been battered and caked in mud. It was still battered, but it was gleaming. What on earth was it doing here?
They were moving out of the square into High Street East now. It had always been the poor relation, but not any more. It was quite the equal of High Street West. Sally caught sight of Ben, waved at him, raised her eyebrows to ask him how he was doing. He shook his head, grimaced, and spread his arms in a gesture of puzzlement. He looked distraught. A cold fear shuddered its way through Sally’s heart.
Beside the band there walked a very pretty young woman, tall and slender, with rich brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was looking proudly at the band, her lips were moving to the unsung words of the tune. Sally recognized her as Arabella Kate Hendrie, the Yorkshire Callas. Sally saw her exchange a grin with her father Gordon – the woman who had conquered La Scala smiling in joy and equality at her dad playing the euphonium in the Rackstraw and Potherthwaite Brass Band.
She caught sight of Marigold and Conrad among the crowd. Marigold was behaving very peculiarly. She looked solemn and pompous for a moment, then raised both hands with the fingers and thumbs outstretched, then raised one hand with four fingers outstretched but the thumb hidden. Then she talked and laughed with Conrad and then both Marigold and Conrad looked very stiff and severe and pompous and serious and then they both raised both hands with the fingers and thumbs outstretched and then one hand with the fingers outstretched but the thumb hidden. Sally looked utterly bewildered and they obviously thought this was the funniest thing they had ever seen, and then they did the whole strange mime again, but this time Conrad went on to mime putting a ring on Marigold’s finger, pointed at Sally and mimed raising a glass. Then he mimed making energetic and really rather specific love to Marigold, and she hit him gently for being so naughty. They were in hysterics. Sally felt such a fool. What did it all mean?
Work it out, Sally. The ring mime must have meant marriage. Had they fixed the date? Ah. Those fingers. Count them. Both hands. Include the thumbs? Yes, because they held the thumbs up very clearly. So that’s five plus five plus four. The fourteenth. But what the fourteenth? Which month? What had all that pomposity and solemnity been about?
July? August? September? Summer surely? August probably. Ah. Au-gust. The word meant pompous and solemn and all that stuff. A wise and august man. It was so Marigold to tell her in charades. And it was so not Conrad. Easy to see who was going to wear the trousers in that marriage.
She nodded wildly and blew them kisses. They blew kisses back. She didn’t feel jealous, didn’t feel jealous at all, she felt happy for them, she felt warm and generous and it didn’t matter at all that she had nobody, and almost as if it was her reward for not minding having nobody, for enjoying other people’s happiness above her own, there he was. He was tall, weather-beaten, his whole face was slightly twisted to the right, he was smart in a sheepskin jacket and pale trousers; it was hard to recognize him but she knew it was him, the man from the lorry, the man from that night, the man who hadn’t tried to rape her. She didn’t know why he was there, but there must be some reason, some small coincidence. It wasn’t particularly significant, but she had hoped to meet him again one day, though she had long forgotten this, but it would be nice to see him again, so she showed that she had seen him, and she pointed to the right to indicate that she would be going down Canal Approach to the Quays, and he nodded, and he looked pleased, and that was that.
The band turned right on to Quays Approach, which became the Great Gate of Kiev. Ahead of them, at the bottom of High Street East, now free of cars, a permanent street market had been established, and even the stallholders had come forward to wave and cheer. Here there were stalls with Indian specialities, and Muslim specialities, and Polish specialities, and Jewish specialities, and it was strange because the town both worried itself to death about immigration and queued to buy the produce on those stalls.
Ellie was getting exhausted. She was barely able to even shuffle now, and moving more slowly than ever. She turned to ask the doctor if everything was all right; he nodded and mimed for her to take it even more slowly. So slow was her progress now that tension swept through the crowd. Almost imperceptibly the procession inched towards the Quays. Ali and Oli were anxious. Sally was anxious. Everybody was anxious. Would Ellie make it?
Who knew just how much pain Ellie went through on that last stretch? The doctor perhaps. But she made it.
The Quays were awash with people. The Sir Norman Oldfield Tea Room, the Terminus Bistro, the Canal Bookshop and Café, the Navigation Inn, they were all heaving. There wasn’t a spare seat on the temporary stand at the towpath side of the canal.
And there, standing to welcome Ellie, smiling perhaps the shyest of all the smiles on that day of smiles, was the small, insignificant figure of Sir Norman Oldfield.
Ali and Oli steered Ellie to another large settee, into which she collapsed.
‘You made it, Ellie,’ said Sally.
‘I made it, Sally,’ said Ellie.
Sally turned to Sir Norman, gestured to him to come forward to meet Ellie. He shook his head violently, gave Ellie a thumbs-up, and walked slowly away. Sally followed him, and he turned to her and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘You made it, Sir Norman,’ said Sally.
‘People are just as awful as I’d remembered,’ said Sir Norman, ‘but I may as well stay now I’m here.’
Lennie Tiptree disentangled himself from the throng and came towards her.
‘It’s the lady herself,’ he enthused. ‘It’s the lady herself in all her glory.’
Sally held out her hand tremulously.
‘No, no, we’re beyond the ’andshake. We’re well beyond the ’andshake. You’re my friend, you are.’
Sally’s relief at avoiding the handshake didn’t last long. The same thin sheen of damp covered the whole of Lennie Tiptree’s cheek as he kissed her.
‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Lovely as ever. Neater, tighter little arse than what I ever saw in Stoke Newington.’
‘Tiptree!’ said Sir Norman, scandalized. ‘Where’s your style? Where’s your breeding?’
‘Never ’ad no style, Sir Norm,’ said Lennie Tiptree with a wicked grin. ‘Never ’ad no bleeding breeding. Left ’em in the Old Kent Road.’
Ben came rushing towards Sally like a frightened partridge chick.
‘No message from her, Sally,’ he said. ‘Nothing.’
‘There’ll be some explanation.’
‘Yes. She’s heard the call of the circus. She’s staying.’
‘She can’t. I need her.’
Her headmistress, Margaret Spreckley, had been true to her word. People just occasionally are. She had got Lucy to write a play and it was a clever play for an eighteen-year-old, a tale of two versions of Potherthwaite’s future, one utopian, the other dystopian. Never again would ignorant people think Lucy stupid because of her dyslexia. She was starring in it too, and it was opening in the Festival on Thursday. Yes, they needed her back. And she would come back. Faith.
‘She’ll be back, Ben. Have faith. Faith, Ben. Very important. Not in God. In people.’
‘Some people.’
‘Yes. Including Lucy, Ben.’
There was a black cloud overhead and suddenly it was as if it tipped and all the rain fell out. A wall of rain, a deluge, pinging off the pavements, soaking the crowd. Hard for Ben and Sally not to see it as a bad omen.
Ali’s umbrella became entangled with Oli’s so Ellie got soaked. People ran undercover, where there was cover, but most people just got soaked.
Sally turned to run and there in front of her was the man from the lorry, and the rain was a bad omen no longer.
He was just standing there in the rain, motionless, smiling. She found herself smiling too. They stood there in the deluge. He kissed her very gently on the mouth.
‘Hello again,’ he said.
‘Hello again,’ she whispered.
Everyone else had run for shelter. They stood, motionless, holding each other tight, alone on the quay from which everyone had fled. There was no point in their moving now. They were as wet as they would ever be.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The lucky people who had found cover started to walk out again, but all the seats were soaking so nobody could sit down.
The sky lightened, and then suddenly the sun burst through, the clouds moved away, there was quite a patch of blue sky. And the sun was hot. This was a summer sun. Everything steamed. The ground steamed. Sally steamed. The man from the lorry steamed. Ellie steamed. Oli and Ali steamed. More than a thousand wet coats steamed. They were standing in steam, surrounded by steam, in a steaming world. Only Ellie sat. There was no point in her standing. Her settee was still dry, protected by her vast bulk.
‘I didn’t expect our meeting to be quite as dramatic as this,’ said the man from the lorry.
‘Amazing,’ said Sally. ‘Amazing. Well, I’m Sally Mottram.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m John Forrester.’
‘The man with the lorry.’
‘The man with the lorry indeed.’
‘I saw your lorry parked in the square.’
‘It isn’t my lorry.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It isn’t my lorry.’
‘It isn’t your lorry?’
‘No. Sorry.’
Did ever a love affair start with such a ridiculous conversation? Yet Sally never doubted, not for a moment, that this was a love affair. Nevertheless, they needed to move on from the lorry.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well, anyway, this is a very nice coincidence.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Not nice?’
‘Not a coincidence. Sally, that night, when I gave you that lift, the memory stuck with me.’
‘Yes, and with me.’
‘I never saw a woman look so scared, so sad, so spent.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I never saw – excuse my frankness – I never saw a pretty woman look so awful. You looked as if you’d seen death approaching.’
‘I had. I really had.’
He took her hand, and squeezed it very gently.
‘I longed to touch you,’ he said, ‘but I think you’d have fallen to pieces if I had.’
‘I think I would.’
‘I think you thought I was the South Hams rapist.’
‘The what? The South what?’
‘The South Hams is what they call that area of Devon.’
‘Ah.’
‘I called on your sister. Judith. No joy there.’
‘She isn’t brimming with it.’
‘She refused to give me any information about you.’
‘Just protecting me, I expect.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Anyway, not long ago, I came upon a photo of you, in a magazine article about the Transition of Potherthwaite.’
‘Oh yes. I think I know the one.’
‘Very good. Good photo.’
‘It wasn’t the worst, no.’
‘I googled Potherthwaite. I found out about the festival. I knew then where I could find you. Here, today. The lorry’s my brother’s. He’s a farmer. I was helping him that night. I was … well, I was saving his farm for him, I suppose. He was ill. Depression. Lots of farmers suffer from depression.’
‘Oh, John, I’m sorry. That’s horrid.’
It was the first time she had called him by name and even in that moment of sympathy a corner of her brain noticed how that strong, plain name suited him, and how easily it sat on her.
‘Is he … um …?’
‘He’s much better now.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Hard times. I borrowed his lorry. Parked it in the square so that you’d see it. Wondered if you’d recognize it. He thought I was mad.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I don’t really know. I just did it. For a bit of a lark, I suppose. A childish touch. Maybe a bit of romance. Maybe a touch of superstition too. And … I don’t know … an exorcism of that night’s fear, if that isn’t a bit fanciful for a farmer.’
‘A farmer?’
‘Yes, I’m a farmer too. Just.’
‘What do you mean – “just”?’
‘I’m purely arable, no animal smells, very little mud, and I’ve got big. It’s big business.’
‘Still a farmer, though.’
‘As I say, “just”. I’m trying to sell up. I’m tired of it. I fancy a challenge. I fancy … changes to my life, Sally. In all sorts of ways.’
‘Ah.’
Their eyes met so briefly that Sally wondered if they really had.
‘You’re as beautiful as I had imagined that night. Many men will think so. Many men will fancy you. Luckily for me, there is something about you that – I hope this doesn’t upset you, I rather like it – something that holds people back.’
‘Oh God!’
‘No, no. It’s not bad. It’s good. You have … what should I call it? Reserve? Dignity? Class? I guess it makes it difficult for lesser men to approach you as the warm, sexy person you are. But I know you better. I have seen you terrified. You hold no fears for me. Do your duties take you away from me, or shall we watch the fun together?’
‘The fun?’
‘All this.’
‘Of course. How stupid. I’d sort of forgotten where we were.’
‘Oh, had you? How marvellous.’
‘I would love us to watch the fun together, John.’
Sally looked round and was surprised to see that she and John were standing in a little space on the crowded quay, standing so intensely together that nobody had dared to intrude on their space. She was amazed to see that so many people, people that she knew, were all looking at her. Terence and Felicity Porchester, as they made their final preparations for departure, had smiles so broad there shouldn’t have been room for them on a narrowboat. Marigold and Conrad, and Ellie and Ali and Oli, and Lennie Tiptree and Sir Norman, and Sam and Beth and Judith, were smiling too, although the smiles of Judith, and of Sam and Beth, held an unflattering element of surprise. Miss Margaret Spreckley, Lucy’s headmistress, was reputed to have a Canadian in the offing, and there he was, sitting right next to her, handsome and tall and as Canadian as a tree, and they were smiling too. And there beside them was the Revd Dominic Otley. His smile had a touch of wistfulness about it, but the smile of his wife, the former Linda Oughtibridge, most assuredly did not.
FORTY-FOUR
Evening
The clouds disappeared. They didn’t move on to plague other Pennine towns. They just melted away. It was still very warm in the sunshine, and the sun seemed to shine that evening into every corner of the Potherthwaite Quays. All traces of the downpour had disappeared. It was hard to believe that it had ever happened.
It had been Sally’s suggestion that Sir Norman Oldfield should introduce Arabella Kate Hendrie to the crowd. He had been reluctant.
‘Supposing I make you a solemn promise never to ask any favour of any kind of you ever again?’ she had said.
‘I suppose I can’t say no,’ he had replied.
The crowd sat expectantly. Now Sir Norman walked up on to the little hump-backed bridge, went to the microphone that had been set up for Arabella Kate. There was loud applause. He held up his hand to stem it.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, and most of the people in the crowd were astonished to hear
the nervousness and uncertainty in the voice of this billionaire. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am told that I am the most famous living Potherthwaitian man.’
There was yet more applause on this day of applause. Sally wondered where the shy heron was; how confused he would be by the day’s happenings if he had not long gone.
‘So who better than me, I suppose, to introduce the person who is without doubt the most famous living Potherthwaitian woman? I refer of course to the lovely young lady who has been dubbed the Yorkshire Callas. Tomorrow she will be reopening our once beloved theatre in company with Opera North. Today she is the Callas of the Canal. How lucky, how privileged we are, to be here today. Is she more famous than me? I don’t know. I don’t care. Fame isn’t important. Where have all the clouds gone this evening? Nowhere. They’ve just disappeared. Fame’s like that.’
Sally was amused by the fact that, here in his native town, the flat Pennine tones were flatter than they had been in his mansion above Marlow.
‘Fame’s nowt. Money’s nowt. I’m realizing that today, and, by gum, it hurts. I asked which of us was the more famous. Ladies and gentlemen, if I were to ask you which of us, me or our guest tonight, has brought the most pleasure into the world, well, it’s not even a question worth asking. And that hurts too. But tonight is not a night for hurt, so I am ready, here tonight, to open my mind to beauty in a way I haven’t done nearly enough. The next hour will be a privilege. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Arabella Kate Hendrie, the Yorkshire Callas.’
The wind had dropped entirely. There was a flat calm on the surface of the canal. The acoustics were perfect. The voice that had charmed La Scala rang out over the glassy waters. Its purity set Sally’s flesh tingling. Its liquid softness pierced her heart. There was tragedy and hope, pity and despair, love and passion in that voice. The glory of ‘Queen of the Night’, from Mozart’s Magic Flute, sailed into that pale blue evening sky. Heron, heron, come back, you will never have heard anything as lovely as this, and you will never hear anything as lovely again. Jenny and Gordon Hendrie felt that they might pass out from the emotion.