Bed of Roses (40 page)

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 tomorrow 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!’

CRRR-Bleepbleep-BRRRR. ‘Is there any ketchup?’

‘I didn’t go to law school for four years,’ snarls Clive, ‘to wind up running a fucking doss house. Anywhere. Least of all in Sri Lanka. Ollie, I’ve told you four times already. Switch off that bloody toy. Now.’

CRRR-Bleepbleep-BRRRR. ‘Is there any ketchup?’

‘Which is why, Geraldine darling,’ he continues, ‘we must all go back to London and face the music. That way Ollie can learn from his mistakes.’

CRRR-Bleepbleep-BRRRR. ‘Mum, I really want some ketchup.’

‘Are you insane, Clive? They’ll lock him up! They’ll lock up our only little boy! How about Jamaica? Jamaica’s lovely. We could open a golf club. Just think,’ she adds wistfully, ‘no more English winters. It’ll be terrific. We can get involved
with the local community. Do something with the kids, perhaps. Put something back…’

‘Geraldine…’ Patiently, Clive Adams lays down his knife and fork, wipes the HP sauce from around his bloodless lips. (Chips, beans and bacon cheeseburger; possibly the most delicious lunch he’s eaten since leaving university.) ‘Geraldine, it’s highly unlikely they’ll “lock him up”. Don’t be so hysterical. And if they do…’ He smiles, rests a dry hand on his wife’s bony shoulder. ‘Darling. I know it’s horrid, but as responsible parents we have to think of the Big Picture. We have to think of ourselves. Because if we’re unhappy what use will we possibly be to our only-little-boy then? I don’t want to live in some God-awful colonial outpost for the rest of my life any more than you do.’

‘Actually, Clive, yes, I do.’

‘I want to put this whole, silly “rural” experiment behind us. Once and for all. And I think it’s in Ollie’s interests –’

CRRR-Bleepbleep-BRRRR.

‘– that we return to London as soon as possible. I’ve already contacted dear old Vernon and he’s assured me the job’s there. If I want it. Which, Geraldine, I do.’

Geraldine gasps. ‘You…bastard!’ she says in amazement.

‘Not at all. I’ve thought it through very clearly—’

‘You want to turn him in!’

‘I want to behave like an adult, Geraldine.’

‘You want to turn your own son in!’

‘That’s not the expression I’d use—’

CrrrBlipBRRRCCRRLRPblpCrrrblipblopSPLASHSHSH SHSH.

Outside the lights are flashing. Clive’s pale face is turning alternately blue, white, blue, white. They hear the car doors slamming, the noisy hiss of the walkie-talkies.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ Ollie says…GAME OVER…GAME OVER…GAME OVER…‘Stop jogging the table everyone.’