Stealing the Show Read online

  Sodding Sam, Nell thought. He must’ve sloped off and left Barry or Ted in charge. She prayed to every god she could lay her brain on that the technical hitch had been corrected. Still smiling, she shrugged. ‘It’s not busy. I expect my brother has gone for a cup of tea. Are you going to inspect it now? I mean, all our safety checks and tests are up to date. We’ve got the certificates.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but you know we have the power, the authority …’

  Nell knew very well. Despite stringent safety checks and engineering tests on every fairground ride before a member of the public ever set foot or bottom on it, and rigorous rechecks each time they built up, and again every day before they opened, the fair was still subject to the dreaded HSE spot-checks at any time of the day or night.

  ‘I’ll see if I can help you.’ She stretched out and bellowed into the microphone, ‘Terry! Come up here a minute, please!’

  Terry, who was still entertaining the young ladies of Oakton, nipped deftly between the cars and swung himself round the front of the pay-box. ‘They’ve paid every time, Nell. I ain’t giving them freebies.’

  ‘What you’re giving them isn’t my top priority at the moment. Get Mick and that Oakton boy we employed yesterday to collect the money and you take over in here for a sec. You know the ropes. You’ve watched me enough times.’

  ‘Yeah, sure – but, with the dosh ?’

  ‘God, yes.’ Pushing past him, Nell almost shoved the damp HSE man out of the pay-box in front of her. ‘If there’s anything missing I’ll know who to blame, won’t I?’

  The HSE inspector plodded across the wet fairground in Nell’s wake. The colours and the lights looked cheap and tawdry, she thought, on dismal nights like this. And the noise wasn’t exciting or pulsating, it was reverberating and annoying. The paratrooper was circling on its skyward axis, three-quarters empty. Ted and Barry, the gaff lads who alternated between the paratrooper and the waltzer, were huddled in the pay-box sharing a damp cigarette.

  ‘Where’s Sam?’

  ‘Cuppa I think. Problem?’

  ‘HSE.’

  The inspector stepped forward. ‘Bring the ride to an immediate halt, please.’

  Ted did as he was told. Several rather wet teenage boys slid out of the seats as they reached the ground, and grumbled about the brevity of the trip.

  ‘Thank you.’ The inspector peered at the car nearest the ground. ‘You haven’t got a double-safety-release bar on this particular carriage. Are they all the same?’

  ‘Of course they’re all the same.’ Nell vowed that she’d go straight for Sam’s throat if he’d cut corners. ‘The cars are standard. They’re as supplied – and as your department has checked them.’

  ‘Double-safety-release bars are insisted upon now,’ the inspector smirked. ‘New legislation. From Brussels.’

  ‘Since when? We haven’t seen any new EC stuff recently. I’m sure we’ve had nothing on the paratrooper this season.’

  ‘No, well, you wouldn’t. It’s not actually written down yet, but we’re taking it upon ourselves to form an advance party. Counter the problem before it becomes a potential disaster, so to speak.’

  Nell glared. ‘So we’re supposed to be damn psychic, are we? We’re supposed to guess the next safety improvisations? Fit them before they’ve even been invented? God, you lot really want traditional fairs to survive, don’t you?’ She sighed. ‘Just tell us what these bars are, where we get them – and we’ll see to it. OK?’

  ‘Not really, Mrs Bradley …’

  ‘Miss,’ Nell snapped, waving her ring-bare fingers under his nose.

  ‘Mizz Bradley. I’m afraid we’ll have to close this ride down until the appropriate safety measures have been taken. Er – do you have a more senior partner I could discuss this with?’

  ‘No, I don’t. My brothers and I are equal owners. However, if you mean is there a man you can impart this to, then yes, I’m sure I can find you one.’

  ‘I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘And I’m sure you did. And we need to run all our rides all the time to make a living – so just how long is this going to be out of action?’

  The HSE inspector sucked his moustache again. ‘No time at all. As soon as the double-safety-release bars have been fitted and satisfactorily okayed by my department then you’ll be up and running. I’ll just wait here while you find someone, shall I?’

  Nell stormed past Barry and Ted, who were still huddled together keeping out of the worst of the rain. One ride out of action for the rest of the week – especially if it was a wet week – would make a serious dent in the cash flow. The fairground was practically deserted. There were the usual cajoling cries of ‘One more car’ and ‘Get ready for the ride of your life’, but very few takers.

  Nell dived into the middle of the side stuff. Claudia’s customer-free hoopla was staffed by the Mackenzie twins, Nyree-Dawn and Mercedes. She almost grabbed them by their matching PVC shoulders in her agitation. ‘Have you seen Sam? And where the hell is Claudia?’

  ‘Claudia says she’s on strike and I dunno where Sam is. Try the paratrooper.’

  Nell sloshed on. The waltzer was flashing and screaming with Danny still hunched in the fibreglass box in the centre, DJing his heart out to four solitary punters. Of the five of them, Danny looked the most cheerful. Nell’s hair was plastered to her face and ice-cold trickles slithered down her neck. Spotting Sam trudging from between the living wagons seconds before he saw her, she broke into a trot. The puddles splashed over the sides of her trainers and saturated her jeans.

  ‘Sam! HSE! Paratrooper! Now!’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Sam pushed his hair away from his face. ‘Problems?’

  ‘I’ll explain as we go,’ Nell said, and did. It was only when she’d finished that she realised that Sam had been coming out of Danny’s van, not his own.

  ‘I’ve never heard of new double-safety-release bars,’ Sam groaned. ‘And I always check the paperwork. Anyway, the Guild would have told us if they were compulsory, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘It’s new European stuff – and this bloke is a real jobsworth. Just, see what he needs, how much it’s going to cost, and how long he wants to close you down for.’ She paused between the immobile twist and the empty juvenile. The raindrops were pattering rhythmically on to the leatherette seats. ‘I’ve left Terry in charge so I’d better get back. I think I’ll call it a day with the dodgems though. And you haven’t got much choice. How’s Claudia?’

  ‘What? Oh, Claudia – Miserable. Sulking. Totally furious with Danny. The usual. Why?’

  ‘Because Nyree-Dawn and Mercedes say she’s working to rule. And because she was wandering around in her version of sackcloth and ashes earlier. And because you were coming out of her trailer.’

  ‘Oh – right. She – er – made me a coffee. I talked to her this afternoon and I wanted to make sure things hadn’t got worse. You know that Danny can be a nasty sod when he wants to, and I reckoned she’d been through enough today. Look – I’d better go and sort this geezer out. I’ll see you in a bit.’

  Nell retraced her steps to the dodgems. The empty cars were pushed to the sides of the silent track and the music was throbbing softly. A small waterfall of rain cascaded from a dripping corner of the tilt. Terry was leaning out of the pay-box talking to the sole remaining Oakton nymphet.

  ‘Cheers, Terry. Everything OK?’

  ‘’Cept for the lack of business, yeah.’ Terry nodded. ‘An’ the money’s all there. Honest.’

  Nell smiled. ‘I was pretty sure it would be. Do you want to scarper now? Go to the pub or something?’

  ‘Great. Yeah.’ He fluttered long eyelashes at his latest conquest. ‘I’d just asked Karen if she’d like a drink, actually.’

  ‘I’d really, really love a Malibu and Coke.’ Karen, who was the most over-made-up and tatty-looking of the Oakton bimbos, beamed. ‘But I’ve got to be home before ten, mind, or my dad’ll go mad.’

  That sho
uld give Terry loads of time to initiate the poor child into the ways of the Beast Wagon, Nell thought, as she switched off the electrics and the sound system, gathered the evening’s scant takings into a canvas bag, and locked the pay-box. Sam would have an easy time tonight counting the cash. There would probably be so little of it that the regular visit to the night safe could be delayed until the morning. Wherever they were, Sam roared off in his Mazda and banked the money before bedtime. The same battered and double-locked briefcase had carried the Bradley income to the Midland’s night safe since Adele and Peter’s time, and none of them would have countenanced going to sleep with the day’s takings in the living wagon. You never knew who might be wandering around.

  With water still slopping in her trainers, and the long, black coat clinging damply to the even damper jeans, Nell thought longingly of a scalding shower, a tumbler of whisky and dry ginger, a plate of pasta, and her feet up on the sofa in front of the television.

  Sam, the gaff lads, and the HSE inspector were still arguing in the middle of the paratrooper as she passed. There was a lot of gesticulating and head-shaking. Nell decided not to get involved. Sam knew where to find her if he needed reinforcements. She ducked beneath the sagging striped tilts of the stalls, where even the most confident pub darts player had long since abandoned the evening’s attempt to win a cuddly hippo in pyjamas – this season’s most popular piece of swag – for the lady in his life.

  Danny remained in the waltzer, determined to squeeze every last penny out of the Oaktonians, and as there was no light on in their living wagon Nell guessed that Claudia had already gone to bed. She’d have to talk to her sister-in-law tomorrow, she thought as she unlocked her front door.

  The squeal of tyres on wet road made her turn her head. Surely not joy-riders – there had been trouble at several fairgrounds recently. She sighed, recognising the car. Joy-riders probably wouldn’t have chosen to nick Ross’s red Ferrari – it was a smidge conspicuous.

  ‘Hi,’ he smiled and air-kissed her damp cheek. ‘I hoped I’d catch you. Guess what I’ve got?’

  ‘A warm towel, a pair of bedsocks, and a hot-water bottle would be top of my list,’ Nell said, opening the door and groaning as he followed her inside. ‘I simply can’t imagine. But no doubt you’re going to tell me.’

  Ross sat on Nell’s curved sofa and dusted away a few stray raindrops. He managed to look merely moist, Nell thought as she dripped into the kitchen. Ross never seemed to get messy or ruffled like other mortals. His suit, shirt, and tie were pristine, his shoes showed only small droplets of water on their incredibly shiny toes. ‘I decided to pack it in early because of the weather – the gaff lads can run the ride without me. Dad’s still going, of course, but then we get a much, better turnout at Wantage than you do here. More punters, more money.’

  Nell returned to the living room, rubbing her hair. ‘We’ve done OK, thank you. So? What’s your surprise? Has Clem bought Drayton Manor Park? Or Chessington? Or are we going to see the Percival logo emblazoned across Blackpool Pleasure Beach?’

  ‘I’ve managed to get a cancellation at Le Manoir.’

  ‘What?’ Nell stopped towelling. This was on a par with mentioning that you’d been invited to Sandringham for Christmas. ‘I thought you had to put your name down at conception – like Harrow. How? When?’

  ‘Easy when you know how – or, rather, who. And for tonight. I knew you’d be pleased. We always have such a good time when we’re out together, don’t we?’

  She shrugged. They did. It was pretty annoying, really.

  He was still smiling. ‘And no one else can turn heads like you can.’

  ‘No one else is nearly six feet tall with hair like a rusty Brillo pad.’

  ‘No one else if half as beautiful. And maybe I was a bit bombastic the other day – about the merger and everything.’

  Bombastic, overbearing, choose your own synonym. ‘It’s a gorgeous idea, Ross, but I’ve had a lousy day. I’m not sure that I’d be great company. And I haven’t changed my mind about anything.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to.’ Ross cheeked his Rolex. ‘You’ve got plenty of time – and wear that green dress. I like people staring.’

  Nell, who didn’t, and was feeling tired and grubby but would have probably accepted an invitation to Le Manoir Aux Quatre Saisons from Dr Crippen, shrugged her shoulders and gave in. ‘OK. But I’m wearing black – and don’t think supper at Le Manoir, or Ma Belle, or anywhere else, will make me change my mind about the merger – or the Ice-Breaker. Or you joining forces with us.’

  Ross leaned back as Nell scuttled round collecting towels and Cacharel toiletries. ‘Tonight is strictly for fun. I swear I won’t utter one syllable about the rides. I may, of course, ask you to marry me over the champagne – but I’m making no promises. Oh, by the way, wasn’t that an HSE guy I spotted with Sam by the paratrooper?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Nell agreed from the bathroom door. ‘How the hell did you know that ?’

  ‘Oh, I recognised him.’ Ross flicked non-existent specks from his cuffs and didn’t meet her eyes. ‘He called on us at Wantage yesterday. We were up to date, of course, having European machines, but they’re getting very tough on all the older stuff, aren’t they? EC policy, no doubt. Still, that’ll be one less thing to worry about when Bradleys becomes an offshoot of Percival Touring Entertainments, won’t it?’

  Chapter Seven

  Adele Bradley had a pretty good idea what was wrong with her children, even though they’d all been non-committal to the point of vagueness during her phone calls to the fairground at Oakton that afternoon. Sam had seemed even more spaced-out than usual, Danny had only just regulated the snarl in his voice, and Nell had sounded thoroughly depressed. Even Claudia, who could usually be relied upon for a good giggle and a bit of gossip, was monosyllabic.

  Adele pursed her lips and applied Sugar Babe lipstick in the ornately filigreed mirror. Her hormonal energy was champing at the bit, and she was determined to channel it. When she’d reported on the phone calls to Peter, he’d said ‘Best left alone’, and ‘Least said soonest mended’, and other similar trite phrases – which all translated, Adele knew only too well, as ‘They’re grown-up now, leave them alone and keep your nose out’.

  Adele tutted and blotted the second coat of Sugar Babe. Men! What did they know? This needed a mother’s touch – and a mother’s touch was just what it was going to get.

  She patted her hair into place, fixed in her favourite dangly earrings, 22 carat gold and shaped like guitars, and lifted her ocelot coat – imitation, of course, because Nell would have probably fire-bombed Graceland if it had been real – from the cupboard. She wasn’t sure that the fur coat was appropriate for a drizzly evening, but it gave her a feeling of gracious elegance as it flapped and swirled and folded around her. And if she was going into battle tonight she was going to need all the allies she could muster.

  Peter was at a bowls meeting. This week they’d voted him on to the committee – in preference to Cynthia Hart-Radstock’s husband – which was a coup and a half, and he’d taken all his organisational skills along with him. The years of bellowing instructions and chivvying a recalcitrant workforce had stood him in good stead with Highcliffe Bowls Club, and Peter was loving every minute of it. Adele was delighted; not only did it mean that his time was fully occupied, but also he wasn’t around this evening to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing.

  The idea that had been brewing ever since Nell’s weekend visit – and which she’d discussed endlessly with Priscilla – seemed outrageous, even to her. Once she’d decided on it, though, there would be no turning back. Was she deceiving Peter by default? Shouldn’t she really be discussing this with him? She shook her head, tangling the golden guitars in her hair. Discussion at this stage was quite out of the question. Peter would say no. She knew he would. All she wanted was to smooth out the wrinkles in the children’s lives so that Peter could enjoy the rest of his retirement without worries. No point
in increasing his blood pressure. She’d tell him later. Once it was all over.

  She had dithered between being completely honest or lying about this evening’s foray, and decided to fudge the issue by leaving Peter a note propped against the kettle: ‘Gone to visit the Percivals. I’ll give them your best. Back before midnight.’

  Peter was used to her occasional sorties to fairgrounds. For the majority of the time her new life was completely fulfilling, but sometimes her feet started itching and she needed to scratch. With luck and a following wind, Peter would be so wrapped up in the glories of the bowls club that he wouldn’t see through the note’s subterfuge until later. She took a further dose of evening primrose, sprayed on a waft of Obsession, and went into battle.

  Kissing Priscilla goodbye and with her black patent high heels tucked under her arm – Adele always drove in an ancient pair of Gucci loafers – she hurried across Graceland’s pink-and-white granite block drive and unlocked the Jag. Seven o’clock and raining. Maybe the ocelot was a mistake. It could smell pretty appalling when it was damp. She retraced her steps and replaced the fake fur with a scarlet PVC trenchcoat, covering her abundant hair with a candyfloss-coloured chiffon headscarf. She could be in Wantage by half past eight, spend a couple of hours hammering out the salient points with Clem Percival, then another hour or so to get back home.

  She hummed happily to herself as she double-declutched on the drive; she might even return before Peter. Then she’d screw up the note and he need not be any the wiser – at least not until after the deed had been done – by which time it would be too late for him to point out the moral issues. All he’d do then was tell her that she’d been very devious and she’d explain that it was for his sake as well as the children’s, and he’d grin and touch her cheek and say how well things had worked out, and everything would be all right.

  Adele slotted in her favourite Presley cassette and had eased the Jag up to fifty before she reached the end of the road. After a lifetime spent driving lorries and towing living wagons through the night, getting from Highcliffe to Wantage in the Jag was child’s play. She had passed her driving test long before the constrictions of speed limits, drink-driving, or seat belts had been dreamed of. While careful to be sober behind the wheel and always buckling herself solicitously into the car, speed restrictions tended to elude her. Neither Peter nor her children were very relaxed passengers when Adele drove. She could never figure out why.