Bed of Roses

by Daisy Waugh

  With a grin he pulls the keys out, dangles them in front of her. ‘All yours,’ he says.

  She wavers.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ And in one swift movement he snatches them away again and drops them back into his pocket.

  ‘Solomon!’

  ‘Why don’t you stay the night?’ he says. ‘Come on. It’s nearly ten already. I’ll bet you still don’t even know where you’re going.’

  ‘Darlington.’ It’s the first town that comes into her head.

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Have a drink. And stay the night. You look exhausted, Fanny. Get a decent night’s sleep and you can be on the road first thing tomorrow morning…’

  They don’t bother with dinner. It’s a warm, clear evening. Solomon takes a bottle of wine from the fridge and they wander outside on to the terrace. Sit side by side on the russet stone bench, not touching each other, watching the stars and talking. About this and that. About Robert White, and Louis, and Kitty Mozely. She asks him more about Nick Faraday, about the last few months of his life, and Solomon tells her something of what he remembers, but not everything.

  ‘Did he…talk about me?’ she asks eventually.

  Solomon hesitates. ‘Not much. A little bit.’ All the time. Incessantly, towards the end. Solomon remembers that Faraday had been trying to track her down. ‘I think,’ he adds tentatively, ‘he wanted to see you.’

  One more time – for the last time, perhaps – she feels the tears spilling for him, rolling fat and slow down her cheeks. ‘I wouldn’t have come, anyway,’ she says. ‘I hated him. I hate him.’

  ‘Well. He’s dead now.’

  ‘I know…I know.’ A silence. So what next?

  ‘The question is, Fanny,’ Solomon turns to her, ‘what do you tell yourself you’re running from now?’

  She looks down at her glass, takes a long, slow glug, until it’s empty. ‘Well, Solomon,’ she says brightly, ‘I think, before we get on to that, we need another bottle, don’t you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And by the way, after we’ve sorted me out, we’re going to move on to you.’ She tilts her head, grins at him. ‘Because, honestly, I don’t know what it is about you, but it strikes me you’re even more fucked up than I am.’

  He laughs his big booming laugh (it will be heard all over the village). ‘Fair enough,’ he says, standing up to fetch a new bottle from the kitchen. ‘Perfectly fair enough.’

  ‘And have you got any crisps or anything? Or biscuits. I’m starving.’

  He blinks. All the other ladies…just pushing it here, pushing it there…In Solomon’s world women didn’t eat biscuits. ‘I’m not sure, Fanny. I’ll have a look.’

  Solomon disappears into the house, spends several minutes rifling through his kitchen in search of crisps he knows he doesn’t have, and returns, finally, with a plateful of cheese-and-pickle sandwiches. He finds Fanny stretched out on the red stone bench, fast asleep.

  He looks at her, screws up his eyes. She has a bra strap, grey – a grey bra strap – showing, and the yellow string of her cotton pants has ridden up above the waist of her jeans. She has greasy, messy hair and trainers – trainers – which almost definitely stink…And she likes eating crisps. He wonders what it is about her, exactly, which moves him so much.

  She scowls in her sleep, mutters a word, something, possibly ‘fuck’, and follows it with a ripping snore. Quietly, Solomon puts down the sandwiches and carries her indoors.

  78

  It’s always the same after Kitty’s been dumped. Scarlett has to coax her out to the first few social engagements before she rediscovers the impetus for herself again. On this occasion, however, Scarlett is noticeably less persuasive than usual. When, at ten past eleven the following morning, she finds her mother still flopping in bed, she sounds positively pleased about it.

  ‘Oh. Are you not coming, then?’ she says, not at the bedside, where she normally stands, but at the door, her hand resting on the knob, ready to pull it closed again.

  ‘I can’t face it, Scarlett,’ Kitty moans, eyes to the wall. ‘Truly, I can’t.’

  ‘All right, then. Well. It starts in about half an hour, so I’d better get going. If I’m going to walk—’

  ‘What?’ The head turns to look at her. ‘Walk? No, no, no. I can’t let you walk. You poor angel. Have you gone mad?’

  ‘Kitty,’ Scarlett laughs, ‘I walk to school every single day. And the school’s further away.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Kitty begins to haul her puffy, panda-eyed face from the pillow. She looks dreadful. ‘Give me two minutes and we’ll go together. We’ll go in the car.’

  ‘Seriously. I can walk.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  Scarlett’s hands twist on the bars of her crutches. She’s frowning. ‘Are you sure…you’re up to it?’

  ‘Of course I am, Scarlett. Thank you for asking. But one has to be brave in life; one has to face down one’s demons. And so on. Life must go on.’

  ‘Seriously, Kitty. Louis’ll be there. You look awful.’

  ‘Try not to be too cruel, Scarlett. I’m coming. And that’s that.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Apart from anything else, there’s sod all else to do in this village…And God knows where bloody Geraldine’s gone.’ Kitty glances irritably at her daughter. ‘Aren’t you hot?’ she snaps. ‘Why have you got that bloody great jersey on? Just looking at you is making me sweat. Take it off!’

  Scarlett ignores her, breathes in. ‘Kitty, are you sure you want to come to this party? I don’t think you’re going to like it.’

  ‘I’m going to adore it. I’ve always been very good at croquet. Scarlett, could you be very kind and quickly run an iron over that Monsoon skirt? Pretty please? While I have a bath? I’m not certain where it is. It may be in the sitting room…Or what about if I wear the new one, with the floaty bottom bit? Which do you think? Perhaps you could have a quick scout around for them both, Scarlett. Could you?’

  ‘We ought to be leaving.’

  ‘Please, Scarlett, don’t be horrid. I can’t go anywhere until I’ve had a bath.’

  With a sigh, Scarlett sidles off to the telephone. She needs to warn people that she’s going to be late.

  79

  Upstairs in Solomon’s spare room, Fanny opens her eyes for the first time in twelve and a half hours. She is lying beneath a duvet, fully dressed except for her shoes.

  It takes her a moment to work out where she is. She can hear activity outside, the sound of hammering, people carrying things. She can hear children playing.

  Of course. Today is the day of the great darts and croquet party. And Solomon Creasey still has her car keys.

  Her last memory – or, no, one of her last – is of sitting out on the terrace waiting for him to bring back another bottle of wine, and then of lying back on the hard stone to get a better look at the stars…She must have—

  She feels her stomach tighten. She imagines Solomon – no, fuck it, she remembers Solomon – carrying her up the stairs. She remembers the feeling of his chest against her cheek, and the smell of him…

  She springs out of bed. Peers through the window. It’s a beautiful morning; a perfect morning. The softest of breezes and not a cloud in the sky. And beneath the cloudless sky—

  —alarming levels of activity. The tranquil garden she fell asleep in last night is unrecognisable. A small, open-sided marquee has been erected, and trestle tables, and around them people are bustling about with bottles and balloons and boxes of glasses, shouting orders, arranging chairs, hanging bunting from the fruit trees. Macklan’s custom-built podium, with the silver trophies arranged on it, stands between the croquet lawn they laid out last night and a row of eight gleaming dartboards. She glances at her watch, swears under her breath. How could she have slept through so much? The party is due to begin in less than half an hour. She had wanted to be well clear of Fiddleford by then.

  But she still needs to get her keys off Solomon. Which means talk
ing to him. Which means looking him in the eye and pretending not to remember how last night, as he carried her upstairs, she nestled her cheek against him and breathed in, and said: ‘Mmmmm.’

  She said that. With her eyes still closed. Still half-asleep, but not really. Mmmmm. She remembers feeling him laughing.

  Fanny has no fresh clothes to change into. She throws water on her face, runs a hand through her horrible dirty hair, then gives up (it seems pointless anyway – she’ll be on the road in a minute) and heads downstairs.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Macklan. I must be allowed to give my own son a fucking wedding present! Tracey – please – will you tell him?’ The door to Solomon’s study is wide open. Tracey, standing slightly apart and dressed, on this glorious day, in a cotton skirt and a thick, dark jersey, glances out of the room, spies Fanny hesitating on her way down the stairs, and beckons for her to come in. It’s the last thing Fanny wants to do but she approaches, dragging her feet.

  ‘Fanny. Good morning,’ Solomon says, barely glancing at her; sleek, and still, as he always is; lean of face, economical in movement, and yet exuding energy; exuding anger on this occasion, and impatience, and, as he looks across at Macklan, a sort of desperate, flummoxed devotion. ‘Can you talk some sense into this idiot?’ Solomon demands. ‘Macklan, my beloved, only son, announces he’s getting hitched to this wonderful, exceptional woman. Not that I know you well, Tracey. But I’ve no doubt you’re—’

  ‘You reckon I look promising,’ Tracey says drily.

  ‘Exactly. Very promising,’ he says, with a nod of amusement. ‘Aside from which he and Tracey are having a baby together, as you can probably see.’

  ‘You are?’ Fanny daren’t look at Macklan. ‘That’s wonderful! Tracey! Congratulations. My God! So…you’re pregnant!’

  ‘Only just!’ say Macklan and Tracey simultaneously. ‘She looks big, doesn’t she?’ He stares at Fanny meaningfully. ‘But it’s early days, isn’t that right, Trace? Only two and a bit months gone.’

  ‘And the stupid bugger,’ Solomon continues, the watchful dark eyes observing, but the tone unchanged, ‘won’t let me buy them the house.’

  ‘Because it’s too big,’ Macklan says.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘We’re perfectly happy where we are. Aren’t we, Tracey? Tell him we don’t want it.’

  Tracey looks at her belly; doesn’t quite reply.

  ‘We can survive perfectly well on our own, can’t we, Trace?’

  ‘Of course we can,’ she mutters. ‘But it is a lovely house…’

  ‘You see? At least your future wife has some sense! It’s by far the nicest house in the village.’

  Macklan sighs. ‘We don’t need the nicest house in the village.’

  ‘I didn’t say you did, Mack. Nobody mentioned need. Don’t be such a prig.’

  ‘Anyway, I don’t want you thinking, just because you buy us a house—’

  ‘Oh, bollocks! I’m not thinking anything at all. I’m just trying to give you a fucking wedding present. By the way, Fanny,’ he says, turning abruptly to her, not quite smiling, ‘you conked out last night before I could get you anything to eat. You must be starving.’

  ‘Oh, yes…Yes…Sorry about that. I don’t remember how I got upstairs. You must’ve had to—’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ he says.

  Fanny’s whole body jolts. Did he say that? Did he say it? Why? Impossible to tell. She peers at him. He’s wearing a dark pullover, which emphasises the shoulders, the chest…and he’s leaning back, resting against the desk, hands in pockets, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s watching her, with his black eyes. She can’t tell if he’s laughing.

  ‘Mmmmm,’ she says stupidly. As if once hadn’t been enough. She can feel his eyes still on her, waiting. She adds, ‘Mmm. I mean yes. I must have been heavy. So…sorry about that.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he says, with the flicker of a smile. ‘It was lovely, actually…Anyway,’ he straightens up, ‘you must be starving. Have you had breakfast yet?’

  ‘No.’ Thud. It reminds her why she’s down here. Reminds her of the other people in the room. And everything else. All her troubles. The knot of dread in her stomach at the thought of that open road, and the next beginning. And not even Louis to depend on. Reminds her that it’s time to get going. ‘I’ve not really got time for breakfast. I’ve come for the car keys, Solomon. So please…’

  Solomon doesn’t move at once. He glances at Macklan and Tracey, who glance at him, and then at Fanny, and then at each other, and then back at Fanny again.

  ‘Please,’ Fanny says again, sensing some kind of conspiracy, not liking it at all. ‘Please.’ She holds out a hand. ‘The party’s starting any minute. I really have to go before it begins.’

  ‘But why?’ Macklan asks.

  Why? She glares at him. Why? A very simple question .. . Why? The answer to which has temporarily escaped her. She feels a lump in her throat, and a familiar feeling of panic rising. Why? Because that’s what happens next, of course. ‘Because…I really have to go.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ says Tracey suddenly. ‘That doesn’t sound like a reason to me. Anyway, you can’t. Not now. Everyone’s expecting you. We’ve got the whole damn village coming out for you, Fanny Flynn. You can’t leave now!’

  Fanny blinks. Doesn’t quite hear her. Isn’t listening. She looks at Solomon. ‘Solomon,’ she says, trying to sound calm, ‘give me the keys. I insist that you give me my car keys.’

  Silence, while his and Fanny’s eyes lock in private combat, until, with a small shrug, Solomon once again pulls the keys from his trouser pocket. Fanny steps up, hand outstretched. She pauses. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, ‘thank you – for everything,’ and lifts her hand to take the keys. In a flash Tracey lunges forward and snatches them.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, Fanny Flynn. I told you, you’re staying here. Solomon’s been working bloody hard for this. We all have.’

  ‘I don’t—Working bloody hard for what, anyway?’ says Fanny. ‘Tracey, this isn’t funny.’

  ‘I never said it was funny.’

  ‘Give me the keys.’

  ‘No.’ She hands them to Macklan.

  ‘Macklan? Give me the keys!’

  With a sheepish grin he puts them behind his back, and shakes his head. ‘The party’s kicking off in half a minute,’ he says. ‘You’re not leaving Fiddleford now. Sorry, Fanny. But you can’t. We’re not letting you.’

  ‘Solomon?…But this is—This is—Give me the fucking keys!’

  ‘Errr.’ He folds his arms across his chest, pretends to think about it. ‘Urmmmm.’ And grins. ‘Nope.’

  They hear a bang on the front door. ‘Hello? Anyone about?’

  ‘It’s open!’ Solomon bellows. ‘Come on in! We’re in here. Perfect timing, if I may say so. Things were just beginning to get a little bit tetchy.’

  Fanny sees a flock of familiar faces trudging across the hall towards her. All of them – Grey, Messy and the new baby Jason, Charlie, Jo and the little twins, and finally the General – are wearing identical white, baggy T-shirts.

  ‘What the—’ Fanny looks from one to the other. ‘I don’t—’ She turns back to Solomon. He, Tracey and Mack are pulling their own jerseys off to reveal the same T-shirts underneath. Each one bears the same simple message across its chest:

  FIDDLEFORD

  NEEDS

  FANNY FLYNN

  ‘Sorry,’ says Jo matter-of-factly, when Fanny remains too flabbergasted to speak. ‘We didn’t really have time to come up with anything snappier. But I think it gets the message across. Plus,’ she spins herself around: ‘MISS FLYNN FOR HEAD’ is printed on the back, ‘we’ve got that as well.’ She turns back to the other three. ‘Louis kept coming up with smutty puns, so we finally sent him off with Reverend Hodge as a punishment. They’re doing the trailer together.’

  ‘Have the others arrived?’ Solomon asks.

  ‘W-what others?’ says Fanny. ‘What is all this?
’

  ‘Scarlett Mozely will be here any minute,’ Charlie Maxwell McDonald says. ‘She’s just called. Unfortunately, Kitty’s coming too, but it can’t be helped. And the rest are arriving now. The vicar’s still attaching things to the trailer, and Louis’s trying to get all the children on to it for the photograph.’ He laughs. ‘We’re going to need you, Fanny, at some point.’ Charlie smiles at her. ‘You seem to be the only one who can control them.’

  ‘Louis? Louis? What trailer? What photograph? Control who? What’s going on? Really, this is—I don’t know what it is. But I’ve got to go.’ Suddenly she spots the General, standing slightly apart from the group, miserably ill at ease in his T-shirt, the first he’s worn in his life – and she stops. She’d been planning to abandon them all without even bothering to say goodbye, and they have done all this, put on these absurd T-shirts…A laugh escapes her. ‘You all look completely ridiculous! But I’m—Thank you…I don’t know what to say. I’m—’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything,’ interrupts Solomon, glancing at his watch. ‘From what I understand, the last time you said anything on this subject you incriminated yourself so badly you forced the poor Reverend to suspend you.’

  ‘That’s right. And then she bloody well resigned,’ says the General. ‘Which resignation, incidentally,’ he adds, ‘in case you aren’t aware, can’t be accepted since it hasn’t yet been delivered in writing.’

  ‘All you have to do, Fanny, is be there for the party,’ Grey tells her.

  ‘It’s a day in your life,’ Solomon says. They wait.

  ‘Just stay for the party, that’s all,’ agrees Messy.

  ‘Come on, Fanny,’ snaps Grey. ‘Don’t a stupid cow.’

  ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll stay. Just today. But after that, you know, if it doesn’t work – and it won’t, because I did do what Robert said I did. I did kiss Scarlett Mozely and I did—’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ they all groan at once.

  ‘And after that I’ve really got to go.’