Stealing the Show Page 5

  Twelve pairs of eyes blinked. The crowbar stopped moving.

  ‘You’re not press?’ The woolly hat and crowbar sounded a bit disappointed. ‘You’re not from the Council?’

  ‘Nothing so exciting.’ Nell’s mouth was dry. ‘Is that – um – this – all yours?’

  The barn, illuminated originally only by one fluorescent tube but helped now by the daylight, was stacked from floor to ceiling with machinery. Old machinery. Very old machinery. And most of it steam-driven.

  Nell worked some saliva into her mouth. ‘Er – what is this, exactly? Some sort of museum?’

  ‘Does it look like a museum, dear?’ A thin face had appeared from behind the man with the crowbar. ‘We’re the Downland Preservation Trust. Or at least, we are until next month.’

  Nell’s eyes were glued to the almost-complete and half-painted set of gallopers which took up a quarter of the floor space. She would have to pinch herself in a minute. ‘It is a Savage, isn’t it?’

  ‘Built in King’s Lynn around 1907.’ A plump man in greasy overalls seemed eager to show off his knowledge. ‘Two careful owners and then total disrepair for the last thirty years. Pity really. It only needs a few more months to be up and running.’

  Nell gazed around the barn. There were the skeletons of at least three fairground rides from possibly the 1920s, a small agricultural traction engine in bits, a larger showman’s engine minus its wheels, the track of what she was sure was a caterpillar ride, and the cars from a ghost train.

  ‘But where did it all come from?’

  ‘We’ve bought it over the years.’ The man with the crowbar had pushed his hat away from his eyes and now looked almost avuncular. ‘The stuff we’ve already restored we take round steam rallies, you know? These –’ he spread his arms wide, ‘will never be finished now.’

  ‘Why not?’ Nell walked closer to the gallopers. ‘I mean, they’re amazing. Perfect. Three abreast and all horses – no chariots or cockerels. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. So why can’t you finish them?’

  The thin-faced man shrugged. ‘We’ve been compulsorily purchased. This is smack bang on the route of the new bypass. The farmer took the money and ran weeks ago. We’re being evicted at the beginning of June. Real bugger, but there you are. We can’t find anywhere else big enough to house it all in the time available, and anyway we can’t afford to move it. So we’re putting it all up for auction.’ His voice was bitter. ‘We thought you were from the press, see. Or the Council. They keep checking up to make sure we’re not intending to stay.’

  ‘We’ve thought about it.’ The man with the crowbar had laid it down and was wiping his hands on an oily rag. ‘Barricading ourselves in and that. But, what’s the point? We’ve still got some completed pieces to hang on to – and the rest should go to good homes.’

  Nell stretched out a hand and touched one of the massive and as yet unpainted galloping horses. The nostrils were flared, the mane streaming. The wood was satin-smooth. ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘They’ll be scrapped.’

  Nell winced at the harshness in his voice. ‘But that won’t happen, surely? They’ll go into preservation?’

  ‘Yes, they’ll go into preservation. Probably spend the rest of their days in static splendour in some stately home. We’d always hoped they’d have more of a life than that.’

  Nell moved carefully amongst the pots of paint, the jars of linseed oil and varnish, the dozens of brushes. The colours were authentic: golds, rose pinks, turquoises, glossy greens; some of the shields and top centres and rounding boards simply needed renovating, others were being copied religiously from the originals. There were scenes of waterfalls and castles, dragons and damsels, bears, lions and tigers, forests and lakes, fairy queens and lance-bearing knights; each one a perfect miniature masterpiece. Half the horses were finished; the remainder leaned against each other, galloping on the spot, still waiting to be restored to their former glory.

  ‘Did you do all this? This painting?’

  ‘We all do something,’ the man offered. ‘We’ve all got skills.’

  He introduced his colleagues and reeled off a list of names and professions. There seemed to be Bobs and Jims and Bens, a Jack, a Harry, a Dennis, a Percy, and a Fred. There were painters and carpenters, engineers and electricians, skilled and unskilled, all preserving the glories of the past.

  ‘How did you know they were a Savage set?’ Dennis, the crowbar and woolly hat, asked. ‘Are you a fan?’

  Nell nodded. ‘Sort of. I’m so sorry that you’ve got to sell them.’

  ‘Not as sorry as we are. And if you didn’t come here deliberately, and you’re not a snooper, what exactly did you want?’

  Overcome by so much bygone beauty amidst all the dust and decay, Nell couldn’t quite remember. ‘Oh, right. Yes. I was just going to ask for directions back to the A34.’

  ‘Easy.’ The thin-faced man, who was a Jim, smiled and proceeded to tell her. ‘OK?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks.’ Nell looked around her again. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

  ‘You could nobble next week’s lottery for us.’ Dennis grinned. ‘Other than that, find us one or two preservation-freak millionaires. Simple, really.’

  ‘Is it woodworm-free? Rot-free?’ Nell simply couldn’t get over the set of gallopers. ‘And where on earth did you discover it?’

  ‘It’s completely sound now. Both the mechanics and the woodwork. We’ve treated all the problems. We’ve even had the rods dipped and re-brassed. It’s just cosmetic work left. And the painting, of course. We were tipped off about them by a preservation freak in Cornwall. They’d been lying in someone’s smallholding for years.’

  ‘How much did you give for them?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re not from the press?’

  ‘Just curious.’ Nell tried to quell the excitement in her voice. Tried to stop the outrageous idea from forming inside her head. ‘I – um – wondered how much you were hoping to get at the auction?’

  Dennis shrugged. ‘Fifty grand – without the organ. Sixty-five with.’

  ‘There’s an organ?’ Nell exhaled. ‘An original? Gavioli? Marenghi? Limonaire?’

  ‘You are definitely a fairground groupie. Want to see?’

  She followed him across the barn, still being careful not to knock anything over. The others watched her reaction as he drew back the corner of a towering tarpaulin.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Nell closed her eyes for a second then opened them again, taking in the brilliant colours and the massed ranks of pipes, drums, and xylophones. ‘It’s a Gavioli. It’s – it’s absolutely stunning.’

  Reverently she touched the ornately carved proscenium which housed the organ. It stretched high above them, the painted pillars studded with light bulbs, surrounded by outrageous figures: Harlequins and Columbines, bosomy shepherdesses and moustachioed soldiers, all waiting to leap into life. She hadn’t seen anything quite so spectacular for years.

  Her voice was little more than a whisper. ‘And – um – have you got music?’

  Percy bustled across to a tall cupboard and threw the door open with a flourish. It was stacked from floor to ceiling with fat and dusty cardboard music books. He beamed proudly, like the parent of an ‘A’ student on open evening. ‘The originals are mostly Chiappas, of course. We reckon that some of the more recent ones have been cut by Arthur Prinsen. They all play. Would you like to look?’

  Nell nodded. Each book, inches-thick concertinaed cardboard folds, with the notes for every one of the organ’s orchestral instruments cut into them, was heavy in her hands. The tunes ranged from hymns, through dozens of marches, to show-stoppers from Irving Berlin and Gershwin, and even included several modern pieces and overtures. It was like discovering the Holy Grail.

  Aware that they were all watching her with growing suspicion, she turned away from the music books. ‘My grandparents had gallopers. I loved them. The noise, the colour – well, everything, really. They got rid of them y
ears ago, when I was very young. Scrapped them. Too heavy and cumbersome to build up and pull down, and far too expensive to run, apparently. And no one wanted to work on them. They bought an octopus and a set of hurricane jets instead.’

  ‘Hell’s teeth,’ Dennis said. ‘Even they’re collector’s items these days.’

  Percy squinted again. ‘So you’re a traveller?’

  ‘London Section. We’re based in Oxfordshire mostly.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m Petronella Bradley. Nell.’

  ‘Ah, right. Bradleys. Nice little outfit. I suppose it would be too much to hope that you’re looking for a set of gallopers, a caterpillar, and a ghost train to complete your business?’

  ‘If only,’ Nell said sadly. ‘Unfortunately my partners are intent on looking into the future – not back to the past.’

  ‘Shame,’ Dennis said. ‘Still, there’s no real call for these any more among travellers. Not commercially viable, as you said. The best we can hope for is that they’ll fetch a good price at auction and we’ll be able to visit them some time.’

  Percy was busy tucking the tarpaulin back round the Gavioli organ, shielding the pipes, the gaudy paintwork, the ornate carvings, from the worst of the dust. Nell sighed. ‘I hope so too. Thanks for showing me – and for the directions.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  They all waved cheerily as Nell headed for the door. One of the Jims opened it for her. ‘Maybe if your partners change their minds, we might see you at the auction.’

  ‘Not much chance of that, I’m afraid. But good luck anyway.’

  Following Jim’s – or was it Bob’s? – directions, Nell found the A34 quite quickly. Darkness was gathering from the high swell of the Downs behind her as she drove back towards Broadridge Green, and a rain-bearing wind buffeted the Volvo. Huge lorries swept past, cars overtook, and reality ceased to exist. The gallopers, as they had been, as they might be again, rose and fell in her mind. The rich orchestral notes from the Gavioli organ struck deeper chords than anything on the radio. She knew she’d dream of them tonight and wake feeling cheated and angry. If only she could persuade Ross to buy the Savage and the Gavioli with the Percival millions, then she might just test her mother’s theories on love and marriage and marry him tomorrow. Oh, get real, she told herself. You wouldn’t marry Ross Percival if he had a twisted brass rod through his back and played ‘Entry of the Gladiators’ in ninety-eight keys!

  Broadridge Green arrived far too quickly, Nell turned in alongside the red, blue and yellow trucks. They’d pulled down the previous evening ready for Monday morning’s move to Oakton. There were no signs of life from any of the living wagons, and the Beast Wagon stood in darkness. They must have all gone to the pub, Nell thought, and knew she wouldn’t join them. She didn’t want to hear about Ice-Breakers and Galaxy Invaders, about the Percivals’ plans for the future, or even about Claudia’s rejuvenated sex-life. She wanted to curl up and remember the Savage and the Gavioli; to imagine what it would be like to own something so beautiful; to see her name picked out in gold leaf …

  Oh bugger, Nell thought as she locked the Volvo. She’d forgotten to buy the milk.

  Chapter Five

  Sex, especially with the wrong person, was seriously overrated, Claudia thought as she watched Danny swagger into the shower. Ages and ages of fumbling and pressing, groping and writhing; and all the way through it you had to look so damn grateful when a cup of tea and a good book would have been far more enjoyable.

  She pushed her tumbled dark hair away from her eyes and slid to the edge of the bed. The early-morning sounds of Oakton were poking inquisitive fingers through the open window, and Claudia wondered if anyone had been outside. She hoped not. Danny’s laboured breathing would have left little to the imagination. Fumbling through the drawer in the bedside table she found the packet of pills, popped out Wednesday’s, and swallowed it quickly.

  Danny, grinning and towelling his hair, appeared in the doorway. ‘Nice day. Sun’s hot already. Should get a good crowd – especially if we open early this afternoon. Loadsamoney!’

  Claudia smiled weakly at the ancient joke and wandered to the window. Still naked, she peered out on Oakton through the gaps in the massed ranks of living vans and lorries, and wished that Danny could have mentioned love or passion or delight or bloody anything other than sodding money. It was always sodding money.

  ‘Come away from the window.’ His voice was sharp. ‘People can see you.’

  ‘What people? There’s no one about. Everyone’s still asleep except the Macs. And the work-going Oaktonians aren’t going to be interested in my body, are they? They’re far too intent on getting to their desks or their shop counters.’

  Oakton was not one of the Bradleys’ favourite stops. An ugly, sprawling town had been built up around the original village, and the fair site had been squeezed to the edge of a new housing estate on one side and a small and soulless shopping parade on the other. And neither of these neighbours welcomed the visitors with cups of tea and bonhomie. As it was an ancient hiring fair, the Bradleys joined forces with several other showmen, so the dodgems, paratrooper, and waltzer were flanked by a twist, a speedway, a helter-skelter, and several smaller rides, while the entire site was ringed with sideshows and food stalls.

  The Oaktonians spent well, but the Bradleys had more complaints about noise and mess and environmental pollution here than anywhere else on their travels. The Town Council had been actively trying to have the fair banned for several years, but had been prevented from doing so by the annual production of a charter dating from the 1600s. There were mutterings in The World’s Fair that Oakton’s newly-elected MP was going to raise questions in the House. Already wildly discontented, Claudia absolutely loathed the place.

  ‘This might be it, you never know.’ Danny walked up behind her and slid his arms round her waist, his fingers splaying over the flatness of her stomach.

  She tried not to jerk away from him. He wasn’t going to start again, was he? ‘Might be what?’

  ‘Our baby.’ Danny’s fingers tightened. ‘You could be pregnant right now.’

  She was glad he couldn’t see her face. ‘Oh, yeah. That’d be great.’

  He moved away again. ‘It’s what I want more than anything. A son to carry on the business.’

  ‘It might be a girl.’

  ‘Then we’d have to keep trying, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘That’s very sexist. Look at Nell. She’s as involved as you and Sam in the firm. And she works just as hard.’

  Danny paused in buttoning his shirt. ‘But Nell has no ambition. I mean, she’d like to jog along just as we are – with three standard rides and a lot of past-their-best side stuff. And why?’ He pulled a mimicking face. ‘Because it’s the way it’s always been done. Crap. That’s the trouble with women – they get all gooey and sentimental.’ He patted Claudia’s bare bottom on his way out of the bedroom. ‘No, I’m going to have to have a son to carry on in the true Bradley tradition. And when Ross Percival comes in with us then it’ll be one hell of a business to hand over to my boy, won’t it?’

  Claudia had long ago stopped feeling guilty. It was her body, after all. Her life. Danny had spent a great deal of time and money on fertility tests – all of which gave them a clean bill of health. Danny couldn’t understand why his thrice-weekly performances had not resulted in a son and heir.

  Obtaining regular prescribed medication of any sort was not that easy for travellers. All the showmen had private health cover of course, and the gaff lads didn’t dare be ill; but apart from being registered with the local GP in Fox Hollow, the Bradleys’ winter quarters’ village, emergency treatment had to be obtained as and when it could on the road. Claudia always made sure she had a three-month supply of contraceptive pills before the start of each season, and returned for a top-up at least once during the summer.

  Once she’d cleaned and tidied the living wagon, the hours until afternoon opening at two o’clock stretched pleasurably ahead. Claud
ia had perfected the art of deceptive housekeeping by straightening cushions, flicking around the visible surfaces with a perfunctory duster, and spraying a good squirt of Mr Sheen into the air five minutes before Danny came in. It gave her tons of free time. The ground rules in their relationship had been set years ago. The living wagon was her domain, the waltzer, his. It suited Claudia nicely. Danny never involved her in testing the rides, cleaning out the waltzer cars, or hosing down the platforms. But then, Danny never involved her in anything.

  Claudia pulled on a short black skirt over her bare legs, tucked in a tight scarlet T-shirt, and found her favourite stiletto sandals. As soon as she’d got her face on, she’d go and knock ’em dead in Oakton’s precinct. It was a game she played all the time. Painting her face, accentuating her body, knowing that men looked at her and wanted her. It made her feel good. Nell was continually warning her that it was dangerous, but she always knew when to stop. There was no harm in look but don’t touch, was there? Not that Nell was likely to say anything today. She’d been distracted ever since she’d come back from Highcliffe. Claudia was in no doubt that Adele had called a three-line whip and instructed her daughter to marry Ross Percival pretty damn quickly.

  Anyway, she thought, as she teetered away from the living wagon, carefully avoiding the fairground because Danny would throw a king-sized fit if he saw her, it wasn’t her fault that other men fancied her when Danny didn’t. Oh, sure, he jumped on her with boring regularity – but only, Claudia knew, because each time he thought he might produce the heir to the Bradley empire.

  She’d loved him very much when they’d married but, without nurturing, her love had withered and died. Danny only cared about the rides, about the business, about making more and more money. She was young and attractive and needed to be reassured. And if Danny wouldn’t do it, then – she shrugged. It wasn’t going to hurt anyone, was it?