Bed of Roses

by Daisy Waugh

  ‘Yes, yes, obviously,’ says Solomon.

  ‘I’m not joking. I’ve actually decided to go to Cuba.’

  ‘Cuba, Darlington,’ he says vaguely, standing up, and shooing everyone back out towards the hall. ‘What’s the difference, eh, Fanny? As long as it’s full of strangers…I get the distinct impression,’ he raises his voice to include everyone, ‘that Fanny Flynn doesn’t like it much when people grow too attached to her. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s rubbish!’ she says irritably. ‘That’s completely wrong.’

  ‘Any more,’ he adds, ‘than she likes herself to grow too attached to people.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish!’

  ‘Or to places, come to that.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Not rubbish.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Everyone laughs, except Fanny.

  ‘Right then,’ he says, striding out towards the garden. ‘Come on then, everyone. Let’s get on with this. Is it too early for alcohol?’

  80

  ‘Now, Kitty,’ Scarlett says. Mother and daughter are sitting in the car directly outside Solomon’s house, having parked up exactly where they weren’t supposed to, directly opposite the door in the wall leading to Solomon’s garden. It’s twelve noon. They’re half an hour late, and Scarlett still hasn’t told her. She takes yet another deep breath. ‘Kitty,’ she says, ‘I’m going to take off my jersey…’

  Kitty glances at her. ‘I should think so.’

  ‘You may like to know that the reason I’ve insisted on wearing this jersey all morning…is because underneath I’m wearing a T-shirt.’

  ‘Well, good. I should hope so. Ha! Unless you plan on doing a Fanny Flynn – which, Scarlett, I most definitely do not advise. You haven’t got the figure. Come on. Let’s go.’

  ‘Kitty, my T-shirt has a message on it—’

  ‘Oh, do shut up.’

  ‘Which you’re not going to like. So I’m going to show you now, OK? Before we go any further. You have to realise, Kitty, before you go in there, that the majority of people at Solomon’s party will be wearing the same thing. Not only that, they’re going to give me a microphone, and I’m going to make an announcement denying what Mr White accused her of.’ Slowly, clumsily, she peels off her outer layer, turns her chest to her mother. She closes her eyes, wincing in anticipation of the explosion.

  ‘AT LAST!’ yells Jo Maxwell McDonald, running across the road and yanking open Scarlett’s door. ‘Thank God. I was beginning to think you’d never make it. Oh. Hi, Kitty—’ She turns back to Scarlett, almost drags her out of the car. ‘We’re ready to go. Louis and the vicar have got everyone on to the trailer.’ She ushers Scarlett back across the village street, puts a hand on the door leading through to the garden – and stops. ‘You’re sure about this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Not too nervous?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s easy. Just stand in front of the trailer, with all the children behind you. And say whatever you like.’

  Scarlett nods. ‘I’m going to say that Miss Flynn has never gone anywhere near me. She’s never touched me—’

  ‘Scarlett, Fanny admits she gave you a kiss. I don’t think you should lie. I think you should just say—’

  ‘What, and let Robert White twist all my words around? Not likely. Anyway,’ Scarlett regards Jo, ‘so far as I remember, it’s the truth. I’ve no memory of Miss Flynn kissing me whatsoever. It’s probably just wishful thinking on Miss Flynn’s part.’

  A cheer erupts as Scarlett and Jo appear side by side. Jo’s eyes scan the crowd: a mass of white T-shirts, with the occasional defiant blob of colour; about eighty people in all, if you counted the Western Weekly Gazette man, the glamorous girl from the Telegraph Magazine, and the boy from Atlas Radio. Not a bad turn-out for a small village…

  There is Mrs Hooper, cheering like mad, and Macklan and Tracey, and beside Tracey, her mother and father, not cheering, perhaps – certainly not wearing the T-shirts – but present, at least. There’s Louis, T-shirt obscured somewhat by his three cameras. He’s clapping nonchalantly, muttering something – something delightful, if her rapturous expression is much to go by – into the ear of his glamorous Telegraph Magazine colleague. And behind them, Reverend Hodge in T-shirt and dog collar is talking to the marvellous Maurice Morrison (pink shirted) who’s brought along his downtrodden, peculiarly hideous wife, Sue Marie. There’s young Colin Fairwell, chatting up one of the Guppy cousins, and the General talking to Pru Ashford; Mr and Mrs Cooke from the pub talking to her husband, Charlie; Grey and Messy McShane…And there in the corner, in the shade of the cherry tree, Russell Guppy, looking surly in his state-of-the-art wheelchair. (He hadn’t wanted to come but Dane, in his misplaced gratitude, had insisted on wheeling him along anyway.)

  ‘Everyone,’ says Jo. Nobody bloody well listens. ‘Excuse me, everyone. Could we have a bit of—Guys, honestly. Could we have a bit of—Excuse me—’

  ‘Quiet, please,’ comes Mrs Hooper’s voice, from the middle of the crowd. ‘MISS SCARLETT MOZELY WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK.’

  Cheers all round: from the trailer of children behind her, who’ve barely acknowledged her existence before now; from her mother, shambling in through the wooden door beside her. ‘Good for you, Scarlett,’ yells Kitty carelessly. ‘And for God’s sake, REMEMBER TO PLUG THE BOOK!’

  Someone hands Scarlett a microphone. Reporters from Atlas Radio and the Western Weekly Gazette edge forward. Louis’s camera whirrs.

  ‘Well, everyone,’ she begins. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say that we all really like having Miss Flynn at our school. She is the best teacher I’ve ever had. The best teacher I think any of us has ever had. And not only that, everyone, I want to make it clear that I completely and utterly deny—’ A hand reaches out from behind her and snatches up the microphone.

  ‘Ladies and gents – sorry about that, Scarlett.’ It is Solomon. He sends her a brief smile, but he looks edgy. There is a muscle going in one cheek. ‘Sorry to interrupt. But Mr Robert White would like to say a few words.’

  Solomon holds out an arm to the house. Heads turn. From around the back of the building three figures emerge and slowly begin making their way towards them. The middle one, long and lanky, his bony arms hugging tightly at its own midriff, appears to be finding it very difficult to walk. He is flanked by two strangers, bull necked, forty-something, hard eyed and shiny suited: both unmistakable villains.

  A gasp of ghoulish pleasure sweeps through the crowd as it parts to allow the men through. They come to a stop beneath the bunting-covered trailer, right beside Scarlett, who looks terrified. Kitty, standing behind her, instinctively takes Scarlett’s arm and pulls her away.

  ‘Well?’ enquires Solomon coldly, of the black-and-purple football which was once Robert’s head. ‘What have you got to say for yourself today?’

  A trembling, wind-chapped hand emerges from the huddle of unhappy body parts. It takes the proffered microphone.

  ‘My name is Robert White.’ Robert’s familiar, reedy voice breaks off. He clears his throat. Starts again. The rest of his speech is delivered in a slurring, galloping, whispering monotone. But it echoes through all fourteen amplifiers across the dumbstruck garden. Not a word is missed:

  ‘the allegations I made recently against Miss Fanny Flynn were a complete invention by myself and I apologise for any inconvenience this may have caused I am a liar and I would therefore like to tender my resignation from the school which resignation I have here put in writing thank you.’

  An astonished silence while Solomon takes the microphone from him, and the two ageing thugs step up to escort him away.

  ‘Bloody well ACCEPTED!’ yells out Tracey.

  ‘And Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish!’ Kitty shouts. For the second time in a week.

  It breaks the spell. The children break into a unified whoop of approval, and then so does the village, so loud that the roar of Fid
dleford’s rejoicing can be heard for miles around. It thunders in Robert’s ears as he staggers away down the village street, climbs into his faithful Panda and drives away, never to return again.

  81

  Solomon roams his own party, not enjoying it very much. He can’t walk a centimetre without someone accosting him, mouthing platitudes at him and blocking his progress. He doesn’t want to talk to any of them. He already knows they’ve been lucky with the weather. All he wants to do is to find Fanny.

  First Mrs Guppy. ‘Macklan seems like a nice boy,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Solomon said. ‘I’ve always thought so.’

  She nudged up a little closer. He could smell the sweat. ‘I suppose you’ll be settling a bit of your money on him now, will you? With the baby. Because they shan’t be getting anything from us, unfortunately. Unfortunately, we don’t have too much spare cash to be handing around…’

  Then the marvellous Maurice Morrison. ‘Solomon Creasey, isn’t it?’ he said, his handsome, pleasant face fizzing with silent agendas. ‘I do so hope you don’t mind me barging in. Wonderful party. Really terrific. Haven’t we been lucky with the weather?’

  ‘Yes. Lovely weather. I’m glad you could come. I was actually looking for Fanny Flynn. Have you seen her?’

  ‘Nooo. I am sorry! Only I’ve just got off the line to the agent. The chap who’s dealing with the Old Rectory sale. There seems to be some sort of confusion.’

  ‘Oh?’ says Solomon, as if he couldn’t guess.

  Morrison’s face twists into an agonising, tooth-baring smile. ‘Ha! Silly question, when you have such a beautiful home of your own. But – are you by some chance trying to buy it?’

  ‘I’ve bought it.’

  ‘Well, ha, no. That can’t be right, you see. I’m actually – rather, my wife and I are actually – en route to a special early viewing. The man sweetly assured me we were going to get first dibs. So, Solomon—May I call you Solomon? I don’t quite see how it’s possible—’

  ‘Ah!’ says Solomon. ‘But it’s the nicest house in the village, Mr Morrison.’

  ‘Well, yes. Apart from the Manor, of course.’

  ‘So I bought it.’ He spots Kitty Mozely making her way over. ‘Excuse me.’

  But it’s marvellous Maurice she’s after. ‘Hello, Mr Morrison,’ she breathes over him. ‘We haven’t met. I’m Kitty Mozely. The writer. And a school governor, as well, actually. Just like you.’

  ‘Ah!’ says Mr Morrison, unconsciously pinching at the cotton of Solomon’s T-shirt, to prevent him from slipping away. ‘What a pleasure.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you for your “anonymous” donation to the school library,’ Kitty says. ‘Since nobody else will actually come out and say it. £50,000, Solomon. Did you hear? We’re very very grateful.’

  Mr Morrison smiles, albeit a little uncomfortably. ‘As a matter of fact, Geraldine’s already—Please. I beg of you. Don’t mention it again. You embarrass me.’

  Solomon, casually unhooking the fingers from his T-shirt, catches Morrison’s eye. ‘Really, Mr Morrison. £50,000? How incredibly generous of you!’ Maurice Morrison blushes. ‘Well – no – I…’

  Solomon winks at him, bellows with laughter, and strides away.

  ‘So, anyway, Maurice,’ Kitty says blithely, delighted to get him on his own, ‘I’ve just been speaking to your – extraordinary – wife. Isn’t she – wonderful?’

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ says Morrison sourly.

  Kitty gurgles wickedly, gusting Morrison with alcohol and cigarettes. She loops her arm through his and with light but iron-hard resolve, starts them walking along. ‘So tell me, Mr Morrison,’ she growls, ‘do you play croquet?’ She looks up into his eyes, leans forward, pushing her breasts together. Maurice Morrison half-gags in revulsion, but she doesn’t seem to spot it. She murmurs into his ear, ‘But first, Maurice – May I call you Maurice? Do tell me – it’d save so much-time – are you circumcised?’

  ‘Splendid party, Mr Creasey! Great fun! Aren’t we lucky with the weather?’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend. Very lucky. Have you seen Fanny anywhere?’

  He has not. Nobody has. Solomon’s looked for her all over the garden. He’s shouted for her all over the house. Now the vicar’s standing in front of him, with apparently no intention of ever moving aside. ‘Only, word reaches me, Mr Creasey – and you will forgive me for bringing this up, but it’s a small village, and we all tend to get to know each other’s business, don’t we?…Did you, by any chance—Am I right in thinking, Mr Creasey – and once again I do apologise for mentioning it – but what with—I must say I was under the impression that those extraordinary gentlemen who escorted poor Mr White seemed to be acquaintances of yours…’

  Solomon nods. ‘One should never forget one’s old friends. Isn’t that right, vicar? Very important.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Absolutely. Quite. But it begs the question, Mr Creasey, it does—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, they seemed – how can I put it? – of the villainous variety, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. And one does hear rumours. Have you at some point in your – manifestly glittering career – spent some small amount of time at – ahh – Her Majesty’s pleasure?’

  Solomon grins devilishly. ‘Now who, I wonder, would have told you a thing like that?’

  ‘Oh, you know how it is. Small villages and so on.’ He laughs nervously. ‘We all have our little secrets!’

  ‘Is that right, Reverend? And what’s yours?’

  ‘Me?’ The vicar gives a high-pitched giggle. WANKING flashes up in capitals in his rusty old head. ‘Gosh. Never mind me…I only mention it because, well…’ He flaps his forearms; an incongruously extravagant movement. ‘Former convicts, shall we say, are not strictly speaking allowed to serve on governing bodies.’

  ‘What about Grey?’

  ‘Mmm? Gosh! Well, exactly. Exactly. No, I suppose I’m just being nosy, Mr Creasey! Never mind. Well,’ he says, backing away. ‘I suppose I should let you get on. Do let me know if you find Fanny. I mean,’ he frowns, ‘I assume we can expect her back at work on Monday?’

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Solomon says heavily, ‘as soon as I find her…And congratulations, by the way. On the croquet. What a player!’

  ‘Oh! You’re too kind. Too kind, Solomon…I must say, I’ve always been very keen. But you know, if it were simply a matter of talent I fear the dreaded Miss Mozely might have reigned supreme…And haven’t we been lucky with the weather?…’

  He finds her eventually. Having checked every other room in the house. He finds her crouched beneath the basin in the downstairs lavatory, with Brute at her side, panting from the heat. Solomon squeezes in beside them without a word.

  ‘Hey, Solomon,’ she says.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘What? Oh, I dunno…’

  ‘But we won!’

  She nods. ‘I should be happy. I mean, I am happy. I’m so grateful. I’m so bloody touched…’ Her head drops. She covers her face with her hands. ‘I just…’

  He puts an arm around her, over the edge of the lavatory, under the bar for the hand-towel rack. It’s a tight squeeze, what with Brute as well. ‘Hey,’ he murmurs. She can feel his breath on her cheek. ‘Fanny, you’re not duty bound to stay with us, just because we want to keep you…That was never the point of the exercise.’

  ‘I know! I mean, I do know—Oh, bloody hell.’ She sniffs, wipes her nose on the back of her hand. ‘Why does it have to be so complicated?’

  ‘But it isn’t.’

  ‘I thought I’d be on the road by now. Everything would all be so simple. Just me and Brute…you know, travelling light…starting again.’

  ‘And you still can start again. If you want to. Any time you want. If it’s what you want…Where are you thinking of going?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It sounds terrible.

  It makes Solomon snort with laughter. ‘So give yourself some time. And you can start again tomor
row when you’ve thought of somewhere to – start. Or the next day, if you feel like it. You can always start again…So why don’t you wait until the end of term? It’s only a couple of weeks. And after that—’

  ‘I’ve got nowhere to stay.’

  ‘Stay here. If you want.’

  A look of panic crosses her face.

  ‘And then in the summer if you feel like pissing off to Cuba…’

  She looks up at him, smiles. ‘Or Darlington…’

  ‘Or Darlington. Or Reading…’ His voice is very low.

  ‘Or the Coral Reef…’

  ‘Or Jamaica…’

  ‘Or…’ But he’s so damn close, she can’t remember anywhere else. Not a place in the world. ‘Or maybe I could just stay with you in Fiddleford…’ she says. She hears herself saying. ‘I mean for a while…’

  He kisses her. ‘And we can just take it day by day…’ And he kisses her again.

  ‘…day by day…’

  ‘…by day…’

  The door rattles. ‘Mr Creasey, sir. Are you in there? You’ve got to come quick!’

  Fanny leans back against the waste pipe and sighs. ‘Yes, what is it, Dane?’

  ‘Oh!…Miss Flynn…’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing! I mean—Nothing. Only someone’s stuck a load of fireworks under my Uncle Russell’s wheelchair and it wasn’t me. But I sees them, and I says to myself, oh my crumblin’ Mondays, someone’s going to get hurt. So I rushes out to find you…’ His face breaks into a grin. They can hear his grin through the door. ’Scuse me, Miss Flynn, but is Mr Creasey in there, too?’

  ‘None of your business. What’re you saying about these fireworks? Have you just left them there?’

  ‘’Cause if he is, Miss Flynn, tell him. He’s going to miss a big explosion if he doesn’t get out here quick. A mighty blow-up, with Uncle Russell blasting off into the sky just like a rocket, I imagine. You’d better tell him.’

  Solomon smiles. Kisses her one more time. ‘Seriously,’ he says, ‘we’ve got to get that boy some help.’

  ‘…How about Sri Lanka, Clive? We could open a little hotel. A smart little boutique hotel. And,’ she leans across Swindon’s Happy Eater dining table, pulls down on her baseball cap and drops her voice even lower, to a whisper, ‘I mean, think of the staff, Clive. My God! We’d never have to do another chore the rest of our lives!’