Chapter 31
I had forgiven Stew for The Great Bum Rack Debacle. Still, I don’t know what it was: after our latest falling-out-and-making-up, something seemed to change between us.
We were matey enough, but I felt strangely awkward in his company, especially on the rare occasions it was just the two of us. And although he was his usual funny, flirty self, there was a certain… I don’t know, keenness. I often caught him looking at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, then quickly averting his eyes.
I tried my best to ignore it, throwing myself into planning for The Boneshaker with gusto. If ever I found myself thinking about what Deano had said the day the committee visited, I pushed it to the bottom of my mind.
At least the viaduct fundraising was straightforward, an antidote to my confused and confusing feelings about Stew. I’d been working really hard – promoting the calendars, encouraging groups to set up their own events, roping in volunteers for The Boneshaker – and the thermometer outside the temp had shot up to 18 grand. We were still waiting on the council grant, but Andy sounded confident the delays were just paperwork.
Added to that was the excitement of finally seeing the route map, which was released by the Le Tour organisers in late October. We still had to wait until January for the official announcement Egglethwaite would be included, but for now just looking at the wiggly Stage 2 line running between York and Sheffield gave me a buzz.
The Boneshaker was to be a sort of autumn fete-cum-community trick or treat with a spooky cycling theme, something a bit different than the usual vegetable shows and harvest festivals. Practically everyone in the village had been roped into getting involved one way or another.
The kids had been decorating their bikes for a costume procession down the main street, with a prize for the scariest bike and owner. We had over 30 themed stalls and pocket-money games in and outside the temp, where a wide cobbled yard served as our village green, and Billy was setting up a beer tent for thirsty mums and dads at one end.
For entertainment we had Gerry’s morrismen, who were down to dance a Welsh border morris – spookier than their usual ribbons-and-hankies prancing, apparently – and Roger had had the band rehearsing a selection of Halloween music. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Werewolves of London arranged for brass.
Me, Tom, Sue and Gerry arrived at the yard, lantern-lit for the occasion, shortly before kick-off.
‘Right, I’d better go get changed,’ Gerry said.
‘Where’s your kit?’ Tom asked. ‘You’ll have to dance in your vest and pants if you’ve forgotten it, you know.’
He grinned. ‘Jim’s bringing it. Bit different than the usual clobber. Wait and see.’
I glanced down at my uniform as Gerry dashed off ahead to the temp. At least with the morrismen performing, the band wouldn’t be the most ridiculously dressed people there for a change.
Speaking of which…
I nudged Tom and pointed to where Yolanda was waiting for us. ‘Check out Audrey Hepburn’s big sister.’
‘Jesus. Has she raided Jasmine’s wardrobe?’
Yolanda had abandoned her usual shawls in favour of some oversized designer sunglasses and a big floppy hat. It was the low-cut and oh-so-very skintight little black dress that really disturbed me though.
Sue snorted. ‘Oi, mutton dressed as lamb,’ she called as we approached. ‘What’s with the getup?’
Yolanda turned to give her what, despite the sunglasses, I recognised as a pretty filthy look.
‘Well, you should know, Old McDonald. You’re the sheep expert.’
‘Don’t come the class warfare line with me, sweetheart,’ Sue said. ‘What’ve you done with the two A-levels that’s so amazing? And everyone knew you only got those because you were having it off with Mr Gallagher in exchange for private tuition.’
‘I was not!’ Yolanda lowered her voice. ‘It was Mr Boswell. And my God, was he worth it.’
‘Bloody hell. No wonder the poor sod died of a heart attack.’
‘Just because you didn’t lose your virginity until you were 21, Susan.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I did not need to know that.’
‘Enough,’ I said, holding up a hand for quiet. ‘No bitching today, please, ladies. This is supposed to be a jolly village event, not an episode of Dynasty.’
‘She started it,’ Yolanda muttered.
‘And I’m finishing it. Behave, Yo-yo, or I’m sending you to your room.’ I glanced at Tom, the nearest man of her preferred age within grabbing distance. ‘Alone.’
‘Spoilsport.’
‘Why aren’t you in fancy dress then, Yo-yo?’ Tom asked. He gestured down at his zombie cyclist costume. ‘We were expecting group members to set a good example.’
‘Oh but I am,’ Yolanda said. ‘Ladies Who Lunch decided on a Witches of Eastwick dress code for our stall, add a bit of glamour. Spooky buns and tarot card reading. We’re calling ourselves The Cupcake Clairvoyants.’
‘You’d better not be got up like a dog’s dinner for the benefit of some poor lad, that’s all,’ Sue said.
Yolanda scanned Sue’s high-vis vest with disdain. ‘And what’re you supposed to be, the planet Saturn? It clashes dreadfully with your hair, you know.’
‘I’m marshalling the kiddies’ procession,’ Sue said. ‘But of course, with your psychic powers you already knew that.’
‘Of course.’
Sue put two fingers on each temple. ‘Ok, what am I thinking now?’
Yolanda grinned. ‘Language, Susan Lightowler.’
Sue laughed and slapped her on the back. ‘All right, love, that’s enough fun for one afternoon. Come help me get the little dears in position.’
When they’d gone, I shook my head. ‘I’ll never get those two. Have you ever seen a friendship built entirely on out-insulting each other before?’
‘Well, if Gerry and Sue managed to build a marriage on it…’ Tom said with a shrug. ‘You’d better go find Roger. He’ll panic if you’re late, and you know that makes him go extra pompous.’
‘Where’s Stew?’ I asked casually as we made our way to the band’s marquee. ‘He is still running our cycling group stall, isn’t he?’
‘Hmm.’
I nudged him in the ribs. ‘Oi. Can you cut out the Stew-related hmming, just for today?’
‘Hmm. Well, all right.’ He gestured to the tables around the edges of the courtyard. ‘Me, Stew and Cam are supposed to be stallholder liaisons. I’d better go find them actually.’
‘All right, see you later.’ I gave his elbow a goodbye pat and nipped under the marquee.
‘Afternoon, fellers,’ I said to the band, squeezing down the second row to my seat. ‘Abide With Me on standby in case it all goes tits up, yeah?’
All my nightmares for weeks that hadn’t been about giant flamingoes and mead-supping Alsatians had involved no one turning up for this event. We’d really put all our eggs in one basket by going for a single big fundraiser rather than a lot of smaller ones, and we were counting on a healthy five grand profit.
After about ten minutes, a crowd had started to gather. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Roger struck us up for a bit of creepy background music, the Star Wars imperial march. It was an old favourite and I knew the part by heart, so I was free to keep one eye on the growing crowd.
Nearly all the kids and quite a few adults were in fancy dress. There was a scythe-wielding Grim Reaper in black lycra, a ghost rattling bike chains, a witch with a bike-mounted broomstick… the theme had obviously captured Egglethwaite’s imagination.
I tried not to look at a giant vampire bat in a cycling helmet. It reminded me of the barbastelles.
Sienna Edge had been doing her damnesdest to get us into a war of words in the press, upping the heartstring-tugging with every letter she wrote, but I’d kept my word to Tom and refused to engage. She was still painting us as the heartless millionaire capitalists intent on wiping out a colony of innocent baby bats, like a bloody Disney film from the eighties. What’s worse, other letters were starting to appear. Letters of support for her.
Whenever I nagged Andy for the wildlife report, the answer was the same one I got when I asked about our loan: paperwork delay. But his warm, reassuring tone always left me feeling things were in safe hands.
Suddenly I noticed Roger glaring at me, waving his baton emphatically, and realised I’d raced ahead a few bars while my thoughts wandered. Luckily the kids’ procession was about to start so no one was paying us much attention.
I couldn’t help smiling as I watched the children getting ready, their faces shining with excitement and mischief. Some of the cutest little witches, werewolves and monsters you ever saw, pushing bikes covered in everything from mummies’ bandages to real homemade slime. They each had a trick-or-treat basket attached to the front, the idea being that villagers would throw sweeties into them as they went by. The cycling celebrity Stew had got for us – a former Tour de France winner turned coach called Harry Croston, apparently pretty big if you followed that sort of thing – was to judge best costume.
I could see Stewart in the crowd too. He was with someone else: a tall, well-built vampire with his face painted deathly white.
That costume – tailored and expensive-looking, not the usual tatty wear-once clobber people bought for these events. And that disdainful lip-curl, the swaggering gait…
Ugh. Harper Brady, trying to be incognito again. I’d been avoiding his calls ever since our disastrous fake date.
The band had a special number lined up to accompany the bike parade: Michael Jackson’s Thriller with cornet solo. A bloody cornet solo. In Thriller… As a dumpy, bespectacled Yorkshireman stood and placed his instrument to his lips, I could imagine that somewhere Jacko was spinning in his grave.
When Harry Croston gave the word, the kids started wheeling their bikes down the hill to the mellifluous sound of a brass band murdering a classic piece of eighties pop.
Harry eventually selected a tiny girl of about four as the costume prize winner. She and her bike were dressed all in yellow with a load of grey cardboard triangles attached, and when Harry asked what scary thing she was meant to be, she whispered shyly she was ‘shark-infested custard’. I was guessing it wasn’t a gag she’d supplied herself, but it got a laugh out of Harry and she attached the blue rosette proudly to her onesie.
After that it was another five numbers from us, then a break while Gerry’s morrismen took over. Abandoning my trombone, I went to talk to Sue.
‘Will you look at that?’ she said when I joined her. I followed her gaze to the beer tent, where a gang of pint-nursing morrismen in various stages of drunkeness were huddled.
‘Bloody hell, what’re they wearing?’ I said, goggling.
‘It’s not what they’re wearing that worries me, love.’ She nodded to Gerry. ‘It’s that second pint he’s just glugged.’
‘To be fair, I can see why he needs a drink. Is that what border morris dancers wear then?’
She shrugged. ‘So his lordship tells me. Tragic, isn’t it?’
Egglethwaite Morrismen were a familiar sight at village events in the traditional white bloomers and bells, but today’s get-up was radically different. Knee-length smocks covered in red and orange rag-ribbons and battered top hats stuck with feathers, faces painted with swirly black patterns – they looked like fire demons or something. They also looked ridiculous, but being morrismen they were presumably used to that.
‘Suppose it is spookier than the usual gear,’ I said.
‘You know, we were 20 when I first let him take me out. Thought he looked like Martin Kemp without the eyeliner.’ She sighed. ‘Now look what I’m married to.’
‘Ah, give over. You love him to bits.’
‘I do, sadly. Although I might change my mind in a minute when he starts titting about like Fairy bloody Snowdrop.’
I felt a jab in the back, and turned to find Tom and Deano behind me.
‘You two coming for a wander or did you want to stay for Gerry’s dance?’ Tom asked.
‘Better not,’ I said. ‘Might hurt his feelings if I descend into fits of uncontrollable laughter.’
‘Again.’
‘I’ll stay,’ Sue said. ‘He’ll only sulk if one of us isn’t here for moral support. See you in a bit, kids.’