Guilt Trip Page 2
At last it was my turn to be inspected. But this time she stepped forward, her hands spread as if in disbelief. ‘But where,’ she asked the whole room, not loudly but very clearly, ‘is Griffith Tripp?’
In the past I’d have squared up to her, asking, ‘What is it to you?’ Now some of my father’s aristocratic genes must have made me say, without a single squeak, ‘I’m his partner, madam. Can I help you?’ My dignity might have been somewhat diminished by the presence of the travelling chamber pot in my hand. Perhaps she didn’t register it.
She glided forward, right hand outstretched, as if to shake mine, but she held it at such a curious angle that I had a terrible fear she might expect me to kiss it. I didn’t, but I did place my new purchase safely on the stand before offering my own. ‘Lina Townend,’ I said as I did so.
‘Ah, his protégée,’ she said, moderating the volume slightly but giving each syllable its full value as she leaned across the stall to air-kiss me. Her scent was expensive, but close to I could see that her skin owed far more to very skilfully applied cosmetics than she’d probably have liked to admit. As for those huge diamond studs weighing down her ears, I’d have insured them as paste. Good paste, but paste. ‘I’ve heard all about you!’
‘She’s my darling Lina – the granddaughter I never had!’ declared Griff, startling her into a tremendous jump, only half of which was spontaneous. ‘She’s my dearest friend possible.’
He’d made an impressive entrance despite the three Waitrose carriers he was clutching – worse, surely, than my pot. He passed them to me as if he was bestowing a huge favour, and taking both of our visitor’s hands, he kissed them in turn.
It was a good job I was holding all that food or I swear I’d have applauded.
So might the rest of the stallholders. Possibly the few punters thought all this came with their entrance tickets, a sort of indoor street theatre, because they formed a loose circle around the pair. Theatrical it certainly was. The woman fell to her knees, her clasped hands raised imploringly, like the model for a bad Victorian picture.
‘Griffith Tripp,’ she began, ‘on bended knee, I beg you to take that part. We cannot manage without you. The part calls. The stage calls. Your public calls.’
A murmur ran round the room, as if the public was responding to its cue.
To my delight, Griff silently expressed extreme reluctance. One hand repelled her, the other called on the heavens for support. Both held their poses. What a tableau. It could have been a bad illustration for a scene from Dickens.
‘Go on, mate, do the decent thing! Make an honest woman of her!’ someone yelled, breaking the silence.
So Griff turned, both hands outstretched to take hers – a good job since I was pretty sure she couldn’t have got up under her own steam without an undignified scrabble. ‘Very well, Emilia. I will at least give you ear.’ He cast a strange look at me (see, the language was catching!): was he asking for help or for approval?
‘Why not go and have a coffee and talk it over?’ I asked. The punters had got more than their money’s worth and might be in a mood to buy. It wasn’t just our business that had been suspended, after all.
For whatever reason, things seemed to improve a little. In half an hour I sold two pretty Royal Worcester blush egg cups and an elegant Edwardian Crown Devon jardinière going cheap because I’d restored extensively. And yes, I showed the buyer exactly what I’d done. A smattering of people were now carrying the bright lime green polythene carriers the fair organizers insisted we all used, so other dealers must have profited too.
Titus appeared a few yards away. ‘Nice bit of drama, eh, doll? Acted like a dose of castor oil on the wallets, too. How much did he pay her? Though it looks more like she’s going to pay him. Griff as toy boy. Who’d have thought it?’
He’d gone before I could reply. All those sentences from Titus. He must have made a killing on something.
Something was beginning to smell oniony. Something in one of the Waitrose bags. They ought to be in the van, but with so many people now milling round I didn’t care to leave the stall unattended. Griff and this Emilia could have five more minutes, but then I’d call his mobile.
In fact, it was nearer fifteen minutes, because I was busy with a couple of the most frustrating sort of would-be buyers. They really liked one of our vases. But they’d seen something similar – well, not exactly like it – on a TV antiques auction show, where it had gone for much less than I was asking for it. Eventually, still managing a smile, I resorted to the lowest trick in my book, which worked almost every time. I put the vase into the woman’s hands. It was like handing her a longed for baby. In her heart and head it was already hers.
Their cash was still warm in my bumbag when Griff reappeared.
I hugged away his apologies. It wasn’t the first time I’d held the fort alone, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last. ‘So what has this Emilia woman persuaded you to do?’
‘Is it so obvious? My dear one, Emilia – Emilia Cosworth, you must have heard of her. No? Ah, me – she once had her name in lights on Broadway and in the West End. I’ll tell you all about her later. What matters now is that Emilia owns and runs a tiny theatre in a converted oast house and wants me – she says to star, but really it’s to be part of the regular ensemble – in a play she’s commissioned.’
‘Commissioned!’
‘When she – like us all – had periods of resting, she taught creative writing. The play’s by one of her former students. Not a household name, dear one.’
‘We all have to start somewhere,’ I said, not one to begrudge anyone the sort of luck I had. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Curtain Call. One hopes it’s not an omen. There’ll be a run of a week at most. The downside is that most of the actors are amateur, so there’ll be endless rehearsals. One evening a week, at least, plus Sunday afternoons,’ he wailed.
Privately, I thought it was just what he needed. ‘Many lines to learn?’ If there was anything to worry about it was his memory, which he insisted was fading.
‘Ah, that’s the wonderful thing! I play an ageing Victorian actor-manager recalling his past triumphs as he writes his autobiography. So I can have the script in front of me! Not to read,’ he added hurriedly, ‘but to refer to, should I need it.’
‘And when do rehearsals start?’
‘They actually began two weeks ago. The actor who was supposed to be playing the lead pulled out quite unexpectedly and entirely without explanation. An amateur.’ He shrugged. ‘So they thought of me. That was the phone call. And then Emilia turns up here – so OTT . . .’
There was something he didn’t want to admit. ‘She certainly put on a good show. Perked up everyone’s sales no end. So when’s your first rehearsal?’ I asked at last.
Now he looked thoroughly hangdog. ‘That’s the problem. This evening. At seven.’
We didn’t finish here till five. Then there was the packing up. But I managed a smile. ‘No problem. I’ll drop you wherever it is, go home, unload, and pick you up. How about that?’
‘But it’s miles – the oast’s miles beyond Hawkhurst.’
‘OK, so it’s a bit of a schlep. But usually you’ll be able to drive yourself. And when the nights draw in,’ I continued, overriding his next protest, ‘you’ll be able to stay over at Aidan’s. Tenterden’s only spitting distance from Hawkhurst. OK? Now, I think we have a customer and I need to get these bags – what on earth did you buy? – into the van.’
TWO
Though I’d been upbeat about Griff’s journey, when I picked my way along what our new satnav assured me was the best route to the oast house theatre, I felt less positive. Griff hated driving in the dark, and naturally these lanes hadn’t a glimmer of a street light. Some were so narrow that there was room for only one vehicle, with passing places at intervals. When I finally reached a nice fast A road, the right turn on to it was really tricky, with cars belting round an almost blind bend like the proverbial bats.
Griff was tut-tutting and exclaiming. Any moment he might cry off. But I could tell even from the way he’d been sitting how much he was looking forward to acting again. Correction: treading the boards. Not that there were many boards to tread, as we discovered when we finally arrived at a longish rectangular building attached to the roundel of the oast. I think you’d call it a space, not a stage. The audience would sit on a rickety set of wooden platforms, looking down at the actors. Running halfway round the extension, behind the acting area, was a balcony. Apart from a fire exit, which was for some reason chained and padlocked, the only entrance and exit was via the oast, which housed a tiny bar and the two loos (I could imagine the interval queues already!). Goodness knows where the actors’ dressing rooms might be.
Emilia, who was clearly running the whole show, waved me off dismissively, telling me that carriages were at ten thirty and not a second before. Were they indeed? But I didn’t so much as grimace till I was out of Griff’s sight, manoeuvring the van round in a tiny parking area so that I could head back to Bredeham via more of those horrible little lanes. There was no one around, so why did I feel as if I was being watched? Home, I told the satnav, quick as you can get me there.
I just had time to empty the van and stow everything safely before I had to set out again, this time in our smaller but still personalized van. There were times when I longed to nip round in a nice anonymous Fiesta, silver, just like everyone else’s Fiesta. For some reason Griff, though addicted to other forms of protection – you should have seen our home and shop security systems, worthy of the Bank of England – stuck to the idea of advertising our business wherever we went. We’d even had rows about it, something we never did about anything else.
There were still lights on in some of the units when I turned up – clearly, running small businesses was hard work and time-consuming for everyone, not just us. One lot of lights went out as soon as I turned into the estate, but no one emerged from the building.
I pulled into the closest space to the oast house, next to a Range Rover with a flat tyre. Half of me wanted to go in and see what Griff and his friends were up to, and warn the owner of the Range Rover, but I couldn’t trust myself not to be rude to Emilia if she got on her high horse again. The other half decided to text Morris; although he worked all hours, he might be free by now. But there was no network coverage, of course. So, locking the van, I went for a prowl, eyes mainly on the mobile’s signal bars. The area was grimmer now it was getting dark, unlit skips and bins looming. There were a couple of pallets still shrink-wrapped in polythene. The brewery and smokery gave off predictable pongs. Another, unmarked unit smelt of chemicals and wood, the blend really sickening.
A signal at last. I told Morris I loved him, and for good measure I sent him a picture of me blowing a kiss through the gloom. Nothing came back. I’d just have to wait.
He was very good at keeping in touch, as he’d promised he would be when he was seconded by the Met, but if it had been hard when he was based in London, it was doubly hard now. When he managed to escape the bosses who seemed to delight in messing up our arrangements, he’d come as near to a port or airport as he could and I’d nip over, even if it was just for a day. Once or twice he’d brought the child he hoped was his daughter, Leda, but only when her mother and the man who also claimed to be her father were both working. His access to her was such a problem that I tried really hard not to complain when we were à trois, not à deux (see, I was already picking up bits of the language). Leda was getting to an interesting age, and I’d discovered a talent I never I knew I had for making sandcastles on windy beaches. Even so, it would have been nice if he’d needed me as much as he needed her.
Why was someone watching me? It wouldn’t be Toby jugs’ eyes this time.
Retreating to the van, I flicked the locks shut and sat tight.
Before I could get into a proper panic, however, someone came round the side of the building, carrying a paper file that I assumed held his script. A fellow actor as young and nice-looking as that – he could have doubled for David Tennant – and Griff would be in heaven. He looked a little surprised to see me, but through the dusk flashed a gorgeous smile. Then he melted away. I didn’t see any activity from the other vehicles parked up, or even the light of a torch: he must have eaten a lot of carrots to be able to see so well in the dark. Then a door in the oast opened, surprising and delighting a whole lot of insects, and Griff and his fellow thespians straggled out. He headed my way deep in conversation with a tall rangy man, for whose bulgy-veined legs mid-knee shorts did absolutely nothing. The man stopped when they saw the Range Rover. Until I got out of the van I couldn’t pick up everything the man said, but to be honest, I didn’t need to.
‘It’s unlike you, my child,’ said Griff, settling beside me as the man dialled so hard that I was surprised his mobile didn’t bite him back, ‘not to have done something about that poor man’s car. I don’t mean to change the wheel, heaven forfend, but to come in and tell us of the problem. He could have called the AA or whatever, and they’d have been here by now.’
‘Only just arrived,’ I lied, not terribly proud of myself for ogling the David Tennant lookalike. ‘And I didn’t know the etiquette of interrupting a rehearsal.’
I didn’t need to interrupt anything for the next five miles. Griff poured out a series of what I can only call lamentations: the cast, the space, the direction, the script itself.
‘So you’re going to give up, are you?’ I asked, tongue-in-cheek.
‘I thought of it. I still do. But perhaps an actor of my experience will help pull everything together.’ When he sounded the r in actor I knew he was smitten.
‘If anyone can do it, you can,’ I declared, concentrating once more on the road ahead. We were trying a different route back, if anything slower and more awkward than the outward one. Why had no one ever got round to building straight east-west roads in Kent, proper dual-carriageways, not these wiggly diagonal things? Talk about all roads leading to Rome. The only place to go to or from quickly was London. ‘So tell me about your part . . .’
‘Ah, the final straight,’ he said as at last we picked up a familiar A road. ‘But what’s going on over there, my love?’
He pointed to what used to be an old-fashioned garage, servicing cars and selling petrol, though naturally at above supermarket prices, so it had gone bust. For months it had lain idle until a couple of enterprising and quite gorgeous Eastern European lads had set up their car wash business, which Griff had made a point of using – anything, he said, to support people trying to make a living. Now it seemed that they’d gone too. There was a shopfitter’s van outside, with people obviously working away inside – even though it was now nearly midnight.
‘Tomacz never mentioned that,’ Griff said.
I was busy overtaking an unlit cyclist. ‘Perhaps Tomacz didn’t know. Perhaps someone sold the lease over his head. Perhaps their little business wasn’t even strictly legal.’
‘We could stop and be nosy?’ Griff was still obviously high on adrenalin; usually, he’d have been fast asleep by now.
‘Let’s pop back tomorrow – then you can have a good gossip with the workers.’
‘My sweet child, I never gossip!’
All the same, the following morning, over breakfast in the garden, he reminded me of my suggestion.
‘I’d love to,’ I said, not very truthfully. ‘But I’ve got to get that Worces
ter figurine back on her feet so the owners can collect her on Monday. Why don’t you go on your own? But remember Mrs Walker’s got a wedding dress fitting and can’t mind the shop today.’
‘Oh, I’ll be back by eleven, never fear.’
When Griff was having a good chinwag, however, he tended to lose all sense of time, so I took my work things down to the shop. I didn’t expect any interruptions, the way business was, nor did I get any till a large delivery van pulled up outside.
Cautiously, I unlocked the door, locking it behind me as I stepped into the sunlight.
The driver might have been Tomacz’s designer-stubbled twin and spoke rather less English. He claimed to have a delivery for us.
‘Antiques, Bredeham,’ he insisted, jabbing the papers. He might have jabbed me too, if I hadn’t sidestepped.
It was true that ours was the only antiques shop in the village. ‘Let me see,’ I said. OK, I was as nosy as Griff.
Eventually, he handed over the papers. I nearly whistled: he had a huge consignment of furniture, all listed carefully. Someone must have an equal mixture of capital and optimism.
‘We don’t sell furniture,’ I told him. ‘It’s not for us. We only sell china.’
‘Ah! China too!’ He pointed at his list.
Yes, indeed. Twelve packing cases of china. More than we’d sell in a year.
‘I’m afraid it’s not ours, though,’ I insisted. ‘It’s all someone else’s.’ But whose? This was antique dealing on an industrial scale. No one I knew would handle anything like that amount. And then it dawned on me where he might be heading – the refurbished garage. I sent him on his way.
So when Griff came back from his foray to the old garage, he wasn’t the only one big with news.
‘An antique shop – oh, they call it a centre! – almost on our doorstep!’ he raged. ‘I don’t recall seeing a notification of planned change of use when I was there last. Tomacz should have mentioned it. Surely, they have to get permission from someone?’