Country Pursuits (16 page)

Over at No. 5 The Green, Calypso was trying not to giggle at a pair of nipple tassels Sam had bought for her. ‘Don't you like them?' asked an affronted Sam, as if she'd just handed over a pair of knickers from M&S.

‘Yah, they're fun, babes, but I don't really think they're me.' Calypso was lounging on her bed, long legs crossed, while Sam stood in front of her holding a nipple tassel in each hand, like a pair of dangly earrings. Sensing a mood coming on, Calypso tried to placate Sam. ‘Honestly, they're totally cool. I do like them.'

‘Maybe you could wear them to Pink Rush?' asked Sam hopefully. Pink Rush was a girls-only nightclub in Brighton. ‘I've even got a pair of dungarees I can coordinate them with.'

Calypso sighed. She didn't know why Sam insisted on dressing like a stereotypical dyke whenever they went out; it was as if she was trying to ram the point home. Luckily Calypso's mobile rang at that moment, and she pounced on it gratefully and peered at the screen. ‘Granny Clem!' she exclaimed warmly, and listened for a few moments. ‘Mmm, yah. OK, I'll be over in two ticks.'

‘You're going out?' grumbled Sam.

‘You can come if you want,' offered Calypso half-heartedly.

‘No way!' she replied. ‘Your grandmother thinks I'm the devil's spawn.'

‘Better than the devil's sperm,' said Calypso cheekily, and swung her legs off the bed. She planted a quick kiss on Sam's mouth. ‘See you later.'

She had no doubt Sam would be perfectly happy
rolling a joint and settling back to watch a DVD. Sam was a mature student at Brighton University, and for someone who claimed they were on a very demanding art course, she seemed to be spending an awful lot of time in Churchminster.

Clementine had decided she wanted to do a bit of research on Sid Sykes to see exactly who they were up against. On the advice of her family, she had acquired a computer and had Broadband installed in her house last summer, but she hadn't used it once. ‘Blasted newfangled things, what's wrong with using one's library?' she had said. But Clementine knew there would be nothing about the likes of Sid Sykes in any of the hundreds of books which adorned the walls of the library at Fairoaks.

‘Calypso, I need you to get me on that Goggle thing,' announced Clementine as Calypso walked into the study.

‘Google,' corrected Calypso, pulling off her electric-blue raincoat.

‘Precisely,' said Clementine impatiently. ‘The search motor.'

Calypso rolled her eyes. ‘Search
engine
. Look, let's switch the computer on and I'll show you . . .'

A few minutes later, they were sitting at Clementine's huge mahogany writing desk, staring wide-eyed at the screen. Sid Sykes had done a lot in his fifty-three years, and not much of it was good. Born in East London as the eighth child of a poor family, Sid Sykes had run away from home at thirteen and joined a travelling fair. He had then worked in a series of betting shops, taking only a decade to rise from shop boy to owner. He sold his
business for a huge profit and moved into property. Fifteen years on, Sykes Estates was one of the most formidable building firms in the country. Sid Sykes lived with his wife Gloria and two children in a five-million-pound Tudor mansion in Essex.

That was the official history. The unofficial one was a record of money laundering, extortion and trading in stolen goods. And of course, his infamous appearance on
Watchdog
. The police had tried several times to press charges, but each time Sykes had hired the best defence lawyer money could buy and the case had been picked apart and blown out of the water. The notoriety had stuck though: Sid Sykes was not a man you messed with.

‘Granny, he sounds horrible!' Calypso shuddered and wrapped her arms round herself.

‘Not the most savoury of characters, I have to agree.' Clementine closed her eyes tightly for a second. Oh Bertie, I wish you were here! she said silently to herself.

‘Lumme, did you hear that Sid Sykes was here yesterday?' Brenda asked Pearl Potts. The two neighbours were standing in their gardens, having their usual gas over the fence. Benedict Towey would have had a fit if one of them had moved in next door to him.

‘Here?' Pearl raised a scandalized eyebrow. ‘In Churchminster?'

Brenda nodded knowingly. ‘Mrs S-F ran into him yesterday. Driving around in a bleedin' great motor like he was lord of the manor!'

‘Which he might well be soon,' Pearl pointed out darkly.

‘Oh, Pearl, don't speak like that!' Brenda scolded her. She shivered dramatically. ‘Quite a nasty character by all accounts. Dressed completely in black he was, and he hasn't got teeth, he's got fangs! All yellow and dripping from what I heard . . .'

‘Is that what her nibs told you?' asked Pearl archly. Brenda's overactive imagination was well known in the village. Brenda flushed. ‘Not exactly, but that was the feeling I got from her, anyway.'

Pearl glanced at her watch. ‘Ooh, lordy! It's Friday and the bummers are arriving in two hours. I promised I'd go water their plants and turn the heating on.'

‘Pearl, you can't call Stephen and Klaus that!' said Brenda, overcome by an unfamiliar attack of political correctness.

‘That's what they do, isn't it?' Pearl gathered up her washing basket. ‘Each to their own and, besides, they don't mind. Nice boys, they are.'

‘You say it to their faces?' asked a horrified Brenda, but the tiny pensioner was already bustling across the lawn to her back door, arms full of clean washing.

SPURRED ON BY
her run-in with Sid Sykes, Clementine called an SCBA committee meeting at her house. Sykes's visit had somehow contaminated the village, his residue still lingering, and Clementine was determined to eradicate it as soon as possible.

It was a warm evening, and the committee sat out on the huge veranda at the back of the house. Clementine glanced around; yet again, it was a jolly good turnout and she had been touched by the number of new members who had flocked to put their names down. Alongside stalwarts such as Freddie and Angie were some younger residents like Jed Bantry. Stephen and Klaus had commitments in London, but Clementine had decided they could be absent members and represent the committee in the influential London circles they moved in.

Clementine had already been elected chairperson. ‘As many of you are aware, I have many years of organizing charity events,' she addressed the room. ‘I don't have to tell you that it is
extremely
hard work, but of course, most rewarding at the end. In the meanwhile, you have to be motivated,
well-connected and resourceful. We don't have much money in the pot, but this ball needs to be the best bash the Cotswolds has ever seen. This means calling in as many favours as one can from friends, business associates and any sponsors we can get on board. Understood?'

Heads nodded vigorously. Clementine looked down at the list in front of her. ‘Right, I have a list of what needs to be done, and the people I think would be suitable for each task.' She put on her reading glasses and started scanning a bony finger down the page.

‘As chairperson I shall be overseeing everyone. I shall also be in touch with the council about the Meadows to make sure they keep us abreast of all arrangements.' She glanced round the room. ‘As you know, it is extremely important we get VIP guests to attend.' She looked at her youngest granddaughter. ‘Calypso, I am leaving you in charge of this. Also you will be responsible for getting us media coverage for the event. I don't know much about that, so I am entrusting you with it.' Clementine tried to fix Calypso with her infamous beady eye, but she was already furiously scribbling into a pink leather Filofax.

‘Caro, you are going to be in charge of the guest list overall. You will take my address book for starters, and phone your mother and father to make sure we haven't left anyone off. We need an Hon sitting on every table. Any suggestions from others would be gratefully received. I am also leaving you in charge of the most important part of the evening, the seating plan.'

Caro gulped. She had seen grown women
reduced to tears over seating arrangements for a simple dinner. It was such a political process; she might have to take a crash course at the House of Commons.

‘We will also be having a sit-down dinner,' Clementine continued. She looked beseechingly at Jack Turner and his wife Beryl. ‘I was rather hoping you would be able to help . . .'

‘We've already spoken to Pierre,' said Beryl. ‘He's going to think up a top-notch menu using produce donated from local sources.' Jack nodded in agreement.

Freddie spoke up. ‘As far as alcohol, I've got a friend who runs a rather good vineyard in the south of France. He says he's happy to provide the wine
and
the fizz. Says it's great PR for him.'

Clementine clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful! This is turning out better than I could have hoped for. Now Camilla, I want you to be in charge of entertainment . . .'

As the meeting went on, more roles were dished out. Harriet was going to be the site manager at Clanfield Hall, to ensure everything was put in place and ran smoothly on the night. She was to oversee the ballroom, cloakrooms and toilets and the car park. Camilla's friend's brother ran his own fireworks company in London, so Camilla was going to ask him if he'd do some kind of show for them. ‘He was involved with the Sydney Harbour display at the Millennium, so, yah, he does know what he's talking about,' she explained.

Calypso had also insisted on being in charge of music on the night: ‘We'll get like, a totally amazing band and DJ!'

‘I don't want any of that dreadful car-alarm music,' warned her grandmother.

‘Hey, maybe we could get Devon Cornwall on board,' suggested Freddie. ‘He might be able to get Mick Jagger or something, I bet they're mates.'

‘Good idea, Freddie!' said Clementine. ‘Can you go round and talk to him about it? Now, Angie, I was wondering if you could be in charge of securing donations for the auction? The more expensive and inventive the better my dear . . .' And so it went on.

After two hours the committee had covered all aspects of the ball, and everyone was exhausted. But they had a gleam of something else in their eyes.

Hope.

TO KICK-START THE
fundraising the Jolly Boot was putting on a French evening the following Friday. Tickets were fifty pounds a head and, for that, guests would receive a champagne (French, naturally) cocktail on arrival, followed by a set five-course dinner. The tickets sold out in a day.

Camilla managed to bag herself and Angus two, as well as tickets for Calypso and Harriet and, much against her better judgement, a pair for Sniffer and Horse. She gave them strict instructions via Angus to behave themselves. When Harriet found out they would be there she tried to pull out, but Camilla talked her round. ‘Come on, Hats, it will be such fun! Pierre is putting on quite a spread, from what I hear.' Harriet eventually agreed, on condition that she didn't have to sit next to Horse.

Caro was also going along, with Sebastian and a couple they were friendly with from skiing called Tilly and Tobey. Clementine had graciously forgone a ticket to babysit Milo: ‘That place is
ghastly
when it's busy, no matter how good Pierre's escargots are.' Milo was going to sleep in the old nursery Caro used to stay in as a little girl.

On the evening, Caro was waiting for Sebastian to come home, hovering in the kitchen, hands curled round a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio. She was wearing a new black dress from Amanda Wakeley in Cirencester. She had been thrilled to find she could fit in a size twelve. Caro hadn't been consciously dieting, but she had found herself picking at her meals recently. Her ebbing lust for life had affected her appetite, too. She might be bored, lonely and miserable, but at least she was losing weight, she thought ruefully. Caro twirled around and looked at her reflection on the cooker window. And she was looking forward to tonight. Tilly and Tobes were a giggle, and it would be nice to have a few glasses of bubbly and let her hair down.

Her phone beeped. A text from Sebastian popped up. ‘
Train is crawling, will be late. Have U ironed my dark blue Turnbull & Asser shirt?
' Caro took another glug of wine, hoping they wouldn't lose their table.

Meanwhile, Harriet and her party were arriving at the pub. Beryl and Stacey had done a marvellous job of decorating: blue, white and red flags hung everywhere alongside strategically placed garlands of garlic. A covered marquee had been set up in the back garden with even more tables, so they could seat a larger number of diners. The staff were all dressed in cute berets and striped blue and white T-shirts. Sniffer and Horse nearly fell over when they saw Stacey, her chest straining like a pair of wriggling puppies trying to get off the leash.

The place was packed. The front bar had been commandeered for diners as well, and every table
was full of people chattering, pulling their bread baskets apart and drinking red wine. Chirpy young waiting staff rushed around to accommodate them, while delicious smells floated out of the kitchen.

Harriet took a seat next to the wall, and then pulled Camilla in next to her. To her relief, Calypso sat down opposite as well. Angus was most put out. ‘I say, what happened to boy girl, boy girl?' he complained.

‘Not tonight, darling, us girls have got lots to catch up on,' said Camilla quickly.

‘Yah, at least we get a good view of that bird's massive hooters!' announced Sniffer, taking his seat at the end of the table. Camilla cringed and hoped Jack Turner wasn't in earshot.

Across the green, Sebastian had finally arrived home.

‘Do you like my new dress?' asked Caro hopefully, as she watched him get ready.

He looked up from tying his shoelaces. ‘It's all right. A bit frumpy. At least it covers all your lumps up.'