Miranda's Mount

by Phillipa Ashley

  Or maybe they would keep it up, she second-guessed. They’d probably keep on doing it for the PR value and wasn’t that why the Mount did it too? As a gesture to the community? No one kidded themselves that the place was run entirely for the benefit of the local people. And yet somehow it felt that way and she really believed that it mattered to the local people, beyond the tourist pounds it brought in.

  The Festival, like the Mount and its people, was a living thing.

  By half past ten, the early birds were already making their way over the causeway. Costumed staff swarmed about, helping the entertainers set up and the charities lay out their stalls and the smell of toffee apples competed with hog roast and candy floss. Miranda threaded her way through the growing crowds and up to the storeroom in the castle tower where the Mount kept a collection of costumes for interpretation days, school visits and special events. She’d much rather have stayed in her shorts and polo shirt but she had to enter into the spirit of things.

  Bugger. The costume rail was almost empty. But that was her own fault – she should have got here sooner. Hanging from the rail was a jester’s outfit, complete with three-cornered hat with bells on it and curly-toed slippers. No way was she wearing that. She’d probably trip over the slippers and jingle wherever she went.

  The other choices weren’t good, either. A bear suit – in this heat? A peasant’s sack and what appeared to be a tavern slut’s outfit.

  Miranda went into the washroom, slipped out of her uniform and held up the costume. Maybe it would fit if she breathed in hard but it looked as if it had been made for a very underfed wench indeed. The skirt had a stretchy waist and Velcro so that was OK but the blouse was a nightmare. She worried about ripping it as she pulled it over her head. It had a lace-up bodice that, drawn as tight as possible, just about covered her bra and almost covered her modesty. When she got down to the quayside, she would absolutely have to fetch a tank top from her cottage to wear underneath.

  ‘Miranda!’ Lady St Merryn’s voice boomed through the door. ‘Is that you in there?’

  Stuffing her clothes in a carrier bag, Miranda opened the door of the cubicle. ‘I’m here. Wow. You look …’

  ‘Fulsome?’ offered Lady St Merryn.

  ‘Regal,’ said Miranda, taking in her boss’s emerald velvet dress, blonde wig and wimple.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Um … The Lady of Shalott?’

  ‘Guinevere, actually, but you were close enough. As long as you didn’t say Rapunzel, I’m happy.’

  Miranda let out a sigh of relief and felt the laces on her bodice creak.

  ‘The walking stick somewhat ruins the illusion but they say that King Arthur came from Cornwall so I feel it’s appropriate on this occasion. I was damned if I was going to dress up as some fusty old matriarch. For a day, I can pretend I’m the woman whom Sir Lancelot risked life and honour for.’ She paused. ‘Forgive me asking, Miranda, but can you actually breathe in that frock?’

  ‘Not really but it was this or a bear suit.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Lady St Merryn raised an eyebrow, as if the bear should have won. ‘Have you seen Jago?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Miranda had been too busy to think about him for the past two hours. She was too busy now. Her radio crackled. ‘Yes? OK. We’ll be right down. The mayor’s arrived to open the fair,’ she told Lady St Merryn.

  Her employer adjusted her wimple and sighed. ‘Shall we go and meet her?’

  Down on the quayside, after the formalities with the mayor were over, Miranda ran straight into Jago. She didn’t know whose eyes popped out further – hers or his.

  ‘Bloody hell! Where the hell did you get that outfit?’ he asked.

  Miranda’s heart sank and her cheeks heated up. ‘It was either this, a bear or a jester so please don’t make any comments.’

  He held up his hands but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘I see you got to the dressing-up box first.’

  Jago glanced down at his own outfit. ‘I thought you’d find it appropriate in the circumstances.’

  He was dressed as a pirate in a billowing white shirt, leather waistcoat, dark fitted breeches and black leather boots. On his head he wore a tricorne hat topped with a feather and, over one eye, a black patch. The other eye seemed to have a touch of guyliner but she resisted the urge to ask him where he’d got it from. ‘You need a parrot,’ she said briskly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the pink in her cheeks.

  ‘It must have flown away.’ He lifted up the eye patch and blinked. ‘Do you think I look wicked enough to rape and pillage the local populace? Not that I know what pillaging is.’

  ‘It means looting and plundering. Taking what you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Or selling it? Let’s not start the day like this.’

  The laces on her bodice creaked again. She still hadn’t had time to get a tank top to wear underneath so that would be the very next task on her list. ‘I have a feeling it’s going to be a long one,’ said Miranda. ‘And I’ll see you in the stocks.’

  A few hours later, the quay swarmed with visitors. The great weather, the attractions and the publicity had all combined to lure a record number of people to the Festival. The Fishermen’s Choir had been a huge hit with the older visitors and a hat had been passed around which had raised even more money for the lifeboats. Theo and some of the crew had even joined in with the rousing finale of ‘Trelawny’, a Cornish anthem guaranteed to stir the blood.

  Amid the non-stop mayhem, Miranda’s still-untamed bodice was the least of her worries as she dashed about, fielding radio calls, looking after the entertainers and dealing with a stream of minor problems that always happened at such events. She’d just finished judging a children’s pirate fancy dress contest when she spotted Louise Dixon on the fringes of the crowd. It was almost time for the tug of war but Miranda decided to take the time to say hello.

  ‘Hello again!’

  Braden sat in his pushchair with his mouth ringed with chocolate ice cream. He poked a finger into a tub, inspected his sticky finger then shoved it in his mouth, sucking off the cream.

  Louise grimaced. ‘The lady in the kiosk gave him a free tub but I was worried he’d try to swallow the little wooden spoon. Thanks for the free Festival ticket. He’s having a great time. We both are, and Braden’s just been in the lifeboat.’ She hesitated. ‘Um … that guy who pilots it seems nice. The captain, or whatever he’s called. Theo, isn’t it?’

  Miranda hid a smile. So Louise fancied Theo. ‘Yes. Theo’s the coxswain of the boat. He’s organised a tug-of-war today. It starts soon. Are you going to watch?’

  ‘Do you think I’d miss all those blokes getting hot and sweaty. Are you mad?’

  Braden let out a chuckle.

  ‘I guess that’s a “yes” to staying.’

  A large crowd had gathered on the quayside, ready to watch the highlight of the day. A tug of war between a combined rugby/lifeboat team and the staff from the Mount. Miranda didn’t fancy her side’s chances. The gardeners, boatmen and maintenance men who made up the team were fit and captained by Reggie, but the rugby team had Neem. Miranda glanced at her staff and decided it was like putting Alan Carr in a cage fight with Vinnie Jones.

  She heard Ronnie’s voice at her ear. ‘Don’t look so worried. Reggie’s been training our team using his SAS techniques.’

  ‘That should be good if they need to live on bugs and kill a man with a rolled-up newspaper,’ said Miranda. ‘But I don’t think it will be much of an advantage against Neem.’

  ‘Neem’s promised me he’ll try not to hurt anyone too badly.’

  ‘That’s good of him.’

  ‘Miranda!’

  Reggie jogged over, sweating buckets before battle had even commenced. ‘There’s a problem.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘One of the gardeners has put his shoulder out and had to go to hospital.’

  Miranda winced. ‘Is he OK?’ />
  ‘Yes, but we’re one short for the team.’

  ‘Can’t one of Theo’s team drop out?’

  Reggie looked at her as if she’d suggested he assassinate the Queen. ‘Drop out? I’m not letting his lot know we’re one man down! You never show weakness to the enemy. We need someone else. Someone fit and strong and preferably very large.’

  His eyes rested on Ronnie who returned his questioning look with a glare that could have turned a whole tug-of-war team to stone. ‘Say a word and you die, Reggie.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. But who can we ask? I’ve already roped in every fit member of staff who’s not on medication.’

  Ronnie pointed at Jago, doing a stint in the ice-cream kiosk next to very flushed Daisy. ‘What about his lordship?’

  Reggie seemed doubtful. ‘D’you think he would?’

  ‘If someone asked him very nicely, he might. After all, it is his island.’

  If there was an emphasis on Ronnie’s last phrase, Miranda couldn’t have sworn to it but she was swiftly despatched to drag Jago out of the kiosk and persuade him to take his part on the rope. She was convinced he’d refuse, having already agreed to be in the stocks later.

  Leading him behind the kiosk, she began her pitch. ‘I know you won’t want to do this and it’s so not your thing and we’re completely desperate or I wouldn’t have asked you and in the circumstances you might not want to get involved in any more of the activities today but … would you mind being in the Mount’s tug-of-war team? One of the gardeners is injured and you are our last resort.’

  Jago took off his tricorne and gave a little bow. ‘Gosh, Miranda, that’s such a flattering offer. How could I resist?’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  To Miranda’s complete astonishment, the staff team, with Jago at the front, won the first of the three tug-of-war sessions. Sweat poured off torsos onto the sawdust-covered cobbled court and the grunting rivalled a ladies’ tennis match. Miranda spotted Lady St Merryn, pigtails flying, screaming at the Mount team like a spectator at an all-in wrestling match. Any moment now, Miranda expected her ladyship to jump into the fray and batter one of Theo’s team with her stick.

  As for Miranda, she now knew the meaning of being between a rock and a hard place. Naturally she wanted to the staff to win, but she didn’t want to cheer too loudly in case Theo thought she was shouting for Jago. On the other hand, it would be disloyal not to egg on the staff. On the other hand – bugger, that was three hands – she ought to support Theo and his lifeboat and rugby friends as they were the main reason for the event.

  After an epic second tug, a great roar went up and Theo raised his arms in the air. ‘Yessss!’

  His team cheered as the Mount team collapsed on the cobbles, gasping. Jago, sitting on his backside, put his head in his hands.

  ‘Oh, knickers!’ cried Miranda. Then, ‘Well done!’

  Ronnie nudged her. ‘Hard, isn’t it, knowing who to support? I want our lot to win but I want Neem to win too. Life’s just so complicated sometimes.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ replied Miranda

  The teams gulped down bottles of water before taking up their positions again. Jago faced Theo and Miranda could feel the tension emanating from the edge of the crowd as they squared up. Both men glared at each other but Miranda guessed she was the only person watching who knew the animosity was real, not put on for effect. Her skin pricked. She had a horrible feeling something was going to give today.

  ‘Ready!’ Fred the harbourmaster, acting as adjudicator, raised his hand as the crowd simmered.

  ‘This is it then,’ Jago shouted across the line.

  ‘May the best man win,’ called Theo.

  ‘Shouldn’t that be best men?’

  ‘You know what I mean, mate.’

  Miranda closed her eyes briefly. Oh, bloody hell.

  ‘Testosterone is a mixed blessing,’ murmured Ronnie. ‘I think I might have to practise some restraining techniques after this.’

  ‘Pull!’

  At Fred’s cry, the teams took up the strain. Their faces grew scarlet, veins stood out on their arms and their grunts became almost bestial. It might be only a game but the sixteen men at either end of that rope were treating it like all-out war. The lifeboat crew’s supporters yelled at the tops of their voices, the staff’s families bellowed even louder. First, Jago’s team, then Theo’s, inched close to the line. Reggie’s eyes bulged alarmingly and one of the rugby team had turned puce. Miranda wondered if the new defibrillator in the medical room was working. Just in case.

  Theo edged closer to the line, heels digging into the ground, as the Mount team had the upper hand. The Mount team were going to win! She held her breath and her hands flew to her mouth. Another few feet and Jago’s team would have dragged Theo over. Suddenly, Neem let out a great roar and, in seconds, Theo had shot backwards. Jago staggered forwards, stumbling over the line and falling flat on his face in a cloud of sawdust. Theo’s team had won and the air was filled with cheering and whistling and clapping.

  Neem grinned, looking as cool as if he’d been for a walk in the park, until Ronnie hurtled into him and almost strangled him with her hug. Miranda had the distinct impression that Neem had been toying with them; he was barely out of breath. As Jago lay sprawled on the cobbles, she ran forwards to help him but Theo got there first.

  He held out his hand to Jago. ‘Sorry, mate, but the best men won.’

  Ignoring him, Jago pushed himself to his feet. Sweat poured off his forehead and he was red-faced with effort, anger and humiliation.

  ‘Are you OK? Both of you?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘Fine. Well done to your team,’ Jago squeezed out, finally extending a hand to Theo.

  Ignoring it, Theo put his arm around Miranda’s shoulders and Jago’s expression turned stormy.

  ‘We thought it would make better entertainment for the crowds if we let you win the first round,’ said Theo.

  In despair at both of them, she freed herself from Theo’s arm and stood apart.

  Jago tried to smile but only managed to snarl, ‘Excuse me, I need a shower. Miranda’s promised to lock me in the stocks later.’

  Theo’s response was a snort. ‘Really? Well, maybe that’s just what you need, a nice long sit-down, mate. See you later.’

  Miranda almost gasped. They were pathetic, both of them.

  ‘Right. The tug-of-war is over,’ she said. ‘And if you two gentlemen don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.’

  An hour later, the crowds showed no sign of thinning. Some of the densest were over by the coconut shy where Lady St Merryn twirled her plaits like Rapunzel meets Ride of the Valkyries. ‘Roll up, roll up!’ Miranda heard her shout, then smiled and felt a pang of regret. She squashed it down, determined to enjoy every last moment, even though the day was racing faster than the tide.

  Ronnie found her hiding behind a shed at the back of the offices, drinking a bottle of water and bolting down a rather squishy Mars bar.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  Miranda swallowed her mouthful of chocolate. ‘It’s crazy, but look at all the people. It’s going to be a record year. How are you doing? Any incidents I should know about?’

  ‘One heated argument over at the coconut shy; one attempt to dive off the terrace Acapulco style.’

  Miranda groaned. ‘You are joking!’

  ‘No. Couple of kids from the village thought they’d move on from tomb stoning, but they’ve been shown the error of their ways. Look, I’m sorry to disturb your break but we need someone to supervise the stocks and take the money for half an hour. Do you have time to do it?’

  Miranda threw the last part of her Mars bar into a rubbish bin. ‘Not really but I will. Who’s in there?’

  ‘One of the lifeboatmen but it’s Jago’s turn soon. Have you seen him?’

  ‘No. I’ll try and track him down.’

  Maybe he’d backed out, thought Miranda, as she fought her way through the crowds to the stocks, licking
chocolate off her fingers on the way. But she was wrong – Jago was already waiting.

  ‘Bet you thought I’d bottled it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she lied, hoping he wouldn’t mention Theo.

  ‘When you didn’t come, I thought you might be otherwise engaged by now.’ Jago left her in no doubt of whom he was referring to.

  Miranda bit her lip and pointed to the stocks. ‘Get yourself in there, villain.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Miss Whiplash.’ After he’d positioned himself on the wooden block, worn shiny by hundreds of unfortunate bottoms, Miranda slotted the wood on top of his ankles and locked it, pocketing the key. Already a new crowd had gathered, all eager to have a turn at soaking and taunting someone fresh. The fact that the someone was the owner of the castle had not escaped a few of the visitors.

  ‘I can see I’m going to be popular,’ said Jago as Miranda filled a bucket with water to soak the sponges.

  ‘One thing you can rely on is that a thirst for public humiliation never goes out of fashion.’ She held up a dripping sponge and shouted to the eager-eyed crowd, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I’m here to tell you that this pathetic-looking miscreant has been sentenced to half an hour in the stocks.’

  Jago’s jaw dropped. ‘Half an hour? I thought you said ten minutes!’

  ‘Oh, you’ve been far too wicked for that, you dirty, wicked, horrible pirate scum.’

  ‘That’s going too far,’ he growled.

  ‘Be thankful it’s only wet sponges, not rotten fruit and veg.’

  ‘What’s a miscreant?’ asked a small boy.

  Miranda wrung out a sponge. ‘It’s a very naughty person. So, who will help this terrible pirate get what he deserves?’