Upstairs in Solomon’s spare room, Fanny opens her eyes for the first time in twelve and a half hours. She is lying beneath a duvet, fully dressed except for her shoes.
It takes her a moment to work out where she is. She can hear activity outside, the sound of hammering, people carrying things. She can hear children playing.
Of course. Today is the day of the great darts and croquet party. And Solomon Creasey still has her car keys.
Her last memory – or, no, one of her last – is of sitting out on the terrace waiting for him to bring back another bottle of wine, and then of lying back on the hard stone to get a better look at the stars…She must have—
She feels her stomach tighten. She imagines Solomon – no, fuck it, she
remembers
Solomon – carrying her up the stairs. She remembers the feeling of his chest against her cheek, and the smell of him…
She springs out of bed. Peers through the window. It’s a beautiful morning; a perfect morning. The softest of breezes and not a cloud in the sky. And beneath the cloudless sky—
—alarming levels of activity. The tranquil garden she fell asleep in last night is unrecognisable. A small, open-sided
marquee has been erected, and trestle tables, and around them people are bustling about with bottles and balloons and boxes of glasses, shouting orders, arranging chairs, hanging bunting from the fruit trees. Macklan’s custom-built podium, with the silver trophies arranged on it, stands between the croquet lawn they laid out last night and a row of eight gleaming dartboards. She glances at her watch, swears under her breath. How could she have slept through so much? The party is due to begin in less than half an hour. She had wanted to be well clear of Fiddleford by then.
But she still needs to get her keys off Solomon. Which means talking to him. Which means looking him in the eye and pretending not to remember how last night, as he carried her upstairs, she nestled her cheek against him and breathed in,
and said
: ‘
Mmmmm
.’
She said that. With her eyes still closed. Still half-asleep, but not really.
Mmmmm
. She remembers feeling him laughing.
Fanny has no fresh clothes to change into. She throws water on her face, runs a hand through her horrible dirty hair, then gives up (it seems pointless anyway – she’ll be on the road in a minute) and heads downstairs.
‘For Christ’s sake, Macklan. I must be allowed to give my own son a fucking wedding present! Tracey – please – will you tell him?’ The door to Solomon’s study is wide open. Tracey, standing slightly apart and dressed, on this glorious day, in a cotton skirt and a thick, dark jersey, glances out of the room, spies Fanny hesitating on her way down the stairs, and beckons for her to come in. It’s the last thing Fanny wants to do but she approaches, dragging her feet.
‘Fanny. Good morning,’ Solomon says, barely glancing at her; sleek, and still, as he always is; lean of face, economical in movement, and yet exuding energy; exuding anger on
this occasion, and impatience, and, as he looks across at Macklan, a sort of desperate, flummoxed devotion. ‘Can you talk some sense into this idiot?’ Solomon demands. ‘Macklan, my beloved, only son, announces he’s getting hitched to this wonderful, exceptional woman. Not that I know you well, Tracey. But I’ve no doubt you’re—’
‘You reckon I look promising,’ Tracey says drily.
‘Exactly. Very promising,’ he says, with a nod of amusement. ‘Aside from which he and Tracey are having a baby together, as you can probably see.’
‘You are?’ Fanny daren’t look at Macklan. ‘That’s wonderful! Tracey! Congratulations. My God! So…you’re pregnant!’
‘Only just!’ say Macklan and Tracey simultaneously. ‘She looks big, doesn’t she?’ He stares at Fanny meaningfully. ‘But it’s early days, isn’t that right, Trace? Only two and a bit months gone.’
‘And the stupid bugger,’ Solomon continues, the watchful dark eyes observing, but the tone unchanged, ‘won’t let me buy them the house.’
‘Because it’s too big,’ Macklan says.
‘Nonsense.’
‘We’re perfectly happy where we are. Aren’t we, Tracey? Tell him we don’t want it.’
Tracey looks at her belly; doesn’t quite reply.
‘We can survive perfectly well on our own, can’t we, Trace?’
‘Of course we can,’ she mutters. ‘But it
is
a lovely house…’
‘You see? At least your future wife has some sense! It’s by far the nicest house in the village.’
Macklan sighs. ‘We don’t need the nicest house in the village.’
‘I didn’t say you did, Mack. Nobody mentioned
need
. Don’t be such a prig.’
‘Anyway, I don’t want you thinking, just because you buy us a house—’
‘Oh, bollocks! I’m not thinking anything at all. I’m just trying to give you a fucking wedding present. By the way, Fanny,’ he says, turning abruptly to her, not quite smiling, ‘you conked out last night before I could get you anything to eat. You must be starving.’
‘Oh, yes…Yes…Sorry about that. I don’t remember how I got upstairs. You must’ve had to—’
‘Mmmmm,’ he says.
Fanny’s whole body jolts.
Did he say that? Did he say it? Why?
Impossible to tell. She peers at him. He’s wearing a dark pullover, which emphasises the shoulders, the chest…and he’s leaning back, resting against the desk, hands in pockets, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s watching her, with his black eyes. She can’t tell if he’s laughing.
‘Mmmmm,’ she says stupidly. As if once hadn’t been enough. She can feel his eyes still on her, waiting. She adds, ‘Mmm. I mean
yes
. I must have been heavy. So…sorry about that.’
‘Not at all,’ he says, with the flicker of a smile. ‘It was lovely, actually…Anyway,’ he straightens up, ‘you must be starving. Have you had breakfast yet?’
‘No.’ Thud. It reminds her why she’s down here. Reminds her of the other people in the room. And everything else. All her troubles. The knot of dread in her stomach at the thought of that open road, and the next beginning. And not even Louis to depend on. Reminds her that it’s time to get going. ‘I’ve not really got time for breakfast. I’ve come for the car keys, Solomon. So please…’
Solomon doesn’t move at once. He glances at Macklan and Tracey, who glance at him, and then at Fanny, and then at each other, and then back at Fanny again.
‘Please,’ Fanny says again, sensing some kind of
conspiracy, not liking it at all. ‘
Please
.’ She holds out a hand. ‘The party’s starting any minute. I really have to go before it begins.’
‘But why?’ Macklan asks.
Why?
She glares at him. Why? A very simple question .. .
Why?
The answer to which has temporarily escaped her. She feels a lump in her throat, and a familiar feeling of panic rising. Why? Because that’s what happens next, of course. ‘Because…I really have to go.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ says Tracey suddenly. ‘That doesn’t sound like a reason to me. Anyway, you can’t. Not now. Everyone’s expecting you. We’ve got the whole damn village coming out for you, Fanny Flynn. You can’t leave now!’
Fanny blinks. Doesn’t quite hear her. Isn’t listening. She looks at Solomon. ‘Solomon,’ she says, trying to sound calm, ‘give me the keys. I
insist
that you give me my car keys.’
Silence, while his and Fanny’s eyes lock in private combat, until, with a small shrug, Solomon once again pulls the keys from his trouser pocket. Fanny steps up, hand outstretched. She pauses. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, ‘thank you – for everything,’ and lifts her hand to take the keys. In a flash Tracey lunges forward and snatches them.
‘You’re not going anywhere, Fanny Flynn. I told you, you’re staying here. Solomon’s been working bloody hard for this. We all have.’
‘I don’t—Working bloody hard for
what
, anyway?’ says Fanny. ‘Tracey, this isn’t funny.’
‘I never said it was funny.’
‘Give me the keys.’
‘No.’ She hands them to Macklan.
‘Macklan? Give me the keys!’
With a sheepish grin he puts them behind his back, and shakes his head. ‘The party’s kicking off in half a minute,’
he says. ‘You’re not leaving Fiddleford now. Sorry, Fanny. But you can’t. We’re not letting you.’
‘Solomon?…But this is—This is—Give me the fucking keys!’
‘Errr.’ He folds his arms across his chest, pretends to think about it. ‘Urmmmm.’ And grins. ‘Nope.’
They hear a bang on the front door. ‘Hello? Anyone about?’
‘It’s open!’ Solomon bellows. ‘Come on in! We’re in here. Perfect timing, if I may say so. Things were just beginning to get a little bit tetchy.’
Fanny sees a flock of familiar faces trudging across the hall towards her. All of them – Grey, Messy and the new baby Jason, Charlie, Jo and the little twins, and finally the General – are wearing identical white, baggy T-shirts.
‘What the—’ Fanny looks from one to the other. ‘I don’t—’ She turns back to Solomon. He, Tracey and Mack are pulling their own jerseys off to reveal the same T-shirts underneath. Each one bears the same simple message across its chest:
FIDDLEFORD
NEEDS
FANNY FLYNN
‘Sorry,’ says Jo matter-of-factly, when Fanny remains too flabbergasted to speak. ‘We didn’t really have time to come up with anything snappier. But I think it gets the message across. Plus,’ she spins herself around: ‘MISS FLYNN FOR HEAD’ is printed on the back, ‘we’ve got that as well.’ She turns back to the other three. ‘Louis kept coming up with smutty puns, so we finally sent him off with Reverend Hodge as a punishment. They’re doing the trailer together.’
‘Have the others arrived?’ Solomon asks.
‘W-what others?’ says Fanny. ‘What is all this?’
‘Scarlett Mozely will be here any minute,’ Charlie Maxwell McDonald says. ‘She’s just called. Unfortunately, Kitty’s coming too, but it can’t be helped. And the rest are arriving now. The vicar’s still attaching things to the trailer, and Louis’s trying to get all the children on to it for the photograph.’ He laughs. ‘We’re going to need you, Fanny, at some point.’ Charlie smiles at her. ‘You seem to be the only one who can control them.’
‘Louis?
Louis
? What trailer? What photograph? Control
who
? What’s going on? Really, this is—I don’t know what it is. But
I’ve got to go.
’ Suddenly she spots the General, standing slightly apart from the group, miserably ill at ease in his T-shirt, the first he’s worn in his life – and she stops. She’d been planning to abandon them all without even bothering to say goodbye, and they have done all this, put on these absurd T-shirts…A laugh escapes her. ‘You all look completely ridiculous! But I’m—Thank you…I don’t know what to say. I’m—’
‘You don’t need to say anything,’ interrupts Solomon, glancing at his watch. ‘From what I understand, the last time you said anything on this subject you incriminated yourself so badly you forced the poor Reverend to suspend you.’
‘That’s right. And then she bloody well resigned,’ says the General. ‘Which resignation, incidentally,’ he adds, ‘in case you aren’t aware, can’t be accepted since it hasn’t yet been delivered in writing.’
‘All you have to do, Fanny, is be there for the party,’ Grey tells her.
‘It’s a day in your life,’ Solomon says. They wait.
‘Just stay for the party, that’s all,’ agrees Messy.
‘Come on, Fanny,’ snaps Grey. ‘Don’t a stupid cow.’
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I’ll stay. Just today. But after that, you know, if it doesn’t work – and it won’t, because I did
do
what Robert said I did. I did kiss Scarlett Mozely and I did—’
‘Oh, shut up!’ they all groan at once.
‘And after that I’ve really got to go.’
‘Yes, yes, obviously,’ says Solomon.
‘I’m not joking. I’ve actually decided to go to Cuba.’
‘Cuba, Darlington,’ he says vaguely, standing up, and shooing everyone back out towards the hall. ‘What’s the difference, eh, Fanny? As long as it’s full of strangers…I get the distinct impression,’ he raises his voice to include everyone, ‘that Fanny Flynn doesn’t like it much when people grow too attached to her. Is that right?’
‘That’s rubbish!’ she says irritably. ‘That’s completely wrong.’
‘Any more,’ he adds, ‘than she likes
herself
to grow too attached to people.’
‘Oh, rubbish!’
‘Or to places, come to that.’
‘
Rubbish
.’
‘Not rubbish.’
‘
Fuck off!
’
Everyone laughs, except Fanny.
‘Right then,’ he says, striding out towards the garden. ‘Come on then, everyone. Let’s get on with this. Is it too early for alcohol?’
‘
Now, Kitty
,’ Scarlett says. Mother and daughter are sitting in the car directly outside Solomon’s house, having parked up exactly where they weren’t supposed to, directly opposite the door in the wall leading to Solomon’s garden. It’s twelve noon. They’re half an hour late, and Scarlett still hasn’t told her. She takes yet another deep breath. ‘Kitty,’ she says, ‘
I’m going to take off my jersey…
’
Kitty glances at her. ‘I should think so.’
‘You may like to know that the reason I’ve insisted on wearing this jersey all morning…is because underneath I’m wearing a T-shirt.’
‘Well, good. I should hope so. Ha! Unless you plan on doing a Fanny Flynn – which, Scarlett, I most definitely do not advise. You haven’t got the figure. Come on. Let’s go.’
‘Kitty, my T-shirt has a message on it—’
‘Oh, do shut up.’
‘Which you’re not going to like. So I’m going to show you now, OK? Before we go any further. You have to realise, Kitty, before you go in there, that the majority of people at Solomon’s party will be wearing the same thing. Not only that, they’re going
to give me a microphone, and I’m going to make an announcement denying what Mr White accused her of.’ Slowly, clumsily, she peels off her outer layer, turns her chest to her mother. She closes her eyes, wincing in anticipation of the explosion.
‘AT LAST!’ yells Jo Maxwell McDonald, running across the road and yanking open Scarlett’s door. ‘Thank God. I was beginning to think you’d never make it. Oh. Hi, Kitty—’ She turns back to Scarlett, almost drags her out of the car. ‘We’re ready to go. Louis and the vicar have got everyone on to the trailer.’ She ushers Scarlett back across the village street, puts a hand on the door leading through to the garden – and stops. ‘You’re sure about this, aren’t you?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘Not too nervous?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s easy. Just stand in front of the trailer, with all the children behind you. And say whatever you like.’
Scarlett nods. ‘I’m going to say that Miss Flynn has never gone anywhere near me. She’s never touched me—’
‘Scarlett, Fanny admits she gave you a kiss. I don’t think you should lie. I think you should just say—’
‘What, and let Robert White twist all my words around? Not likely. Anyway,’ Scarlett regards Jo, ‘so far as I remember, it’s the truth. I’ve no memory of Miss Flynn kissing me whatsoever. It’s probably just wishful thinking on Miss Flynn’s part.’
A cheer erupts as Scarlett and Jo appear side by side. Jo’s eyes scan the crowd: a mass of white T-shirts, with the occasional defiant blob of colour; about eighty people in all, if you counted the
Western Weekly Gazette
man, the glamorous girl from the
Telegraph Magazine
, and the boy from Atlas Radio. Not a bad turn-out for a small village…
There is Mrs Hooper, cheering like mad, and Macklan and Tracey, and beside Tracey, her mother and father, not
cheering, perhaps – certainly not wearing the T-shirts – but present, at least. There’s Louis, T-shirt obscured somewhat by his three cameras. He’s clapping nonchalantly, muttering something – something delightful, if her rapturous expression is much to go by – into the ear of his glamorous
Telegraph Magazine
colleague. And behind them, Reverend Hodge in T-shirt and dog collar is talking to the marvellous Maurice Morrison (pink shirted) who’s brought along his downtrodden, peculiarly hideous wife, Sue Marie. There’s young Colin Fairwell, chatting up one of the Guppy cousins, and the General talking to Pru Ashford; Mr and Mrs Cooke from the pub talking to her husband, Charlie; Grey and Messy McShane…And there in the corner, in the shade of the cherry tree, Russell Guppy, looking surly in his state-of-the-art wheelchair. (He hadn’t wanted to come but Dane, in his misplaced gratitude, had insisted on wheeling him along anyway.)
‘Everyone,’ says Jo. Nobody bloody well listens. ‘Excuse me, everyone. Could we have a bit of—Guys, honestly. Could we have a bit of—
Excuse me
—’
‘Quiet, please,’ comes Mrs Hooper’s voice, from the middle of the crowd. ‘MISS SCARLETT MOZELY WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK.’
Cheers all round: from the trailer of children behind her, who’ve barely acknowledged her existence before now; from her mother, shambling in through the wooden door beside her. ‘Good for you, Scarlett,’ yells Kitty carelessly. ‘And for God’s sake, REMEMBER TO PLUG THE BOOK!’
Someone hands Scarlett a microphone. Reporters from Atlas Radio and the
Western Weekly Gazette
edge forward. Louis’s camera whirrs.
‘Well, everyone,’ she begins. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to say that we all really like having Miss Flynn at our school. She is the best teacher I’ve ever had. The best
teacher I think any of us has ever had. And not only that, everyone, I want to make it clear that I completely and utterly deny—’ A hand reaches out from behind her and snatches up the microphone.
‘Ladies and gents – sorry about that, Scarlett.’ It is Solomon. He sends her a brief smile, but he looks edgy. There is a muscle going in one cheek. ‘Sorry to interrupt. But Mr Robert White would like to say a few words.’
Solomon holds out an arm to the house. Heads turn. From around the back of the building three figures emerge and slowly begin making their way towards them. The middle one, long and lanky, his bony arms hugging tightly at its own midriff, appears to be finding it very difficult to walk. He is flanked by two strangers, bull necked, forty-something, hard eyed and shiny suited: both unmistakable villains.
A gasp of ghoulish pleasure sweeps through the crowd as it parts to allow the men through. They come to a stop beneath the bunting-covered trailer, right beside Scarlett, who looks terrified. Kitty, standing behind her, instinctively takes Scarlett’s arm and pulls her away.
‘Well?’ enquires Solomon coldly, of the black-and-purple football which was once Robert’s head. ‘What have you got to say for yourself today?’
A trembling, wind-chapped hand emerges from the huddle of unhappy body parts. It takes the proffered microphone.
‘My name is Robert White.’ Robert’s familiar, reedy voice breaks off. He clears his throat. Starts again. The rest of his speech is delivered in a slurring, galloping, whispering monotone. But it echoes through all fourteen amplifiers across the dumbstruck garden. Not a word is missed:
‘the allegations I made recently against Miss Fanny Flynn were a complete invention by myself and I apologise for any inconvenience this may have caused I am a liar and I would therefore
like to tender my resignation from the school which resignation I have here put in writing thank you.’
An astonished silence while Solomon takes the microphone from him, and the two ageing thugs step up to escort him away.
‘Bloody well ACCEPTED!’ yells out Tracey.
‘And Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish!’ Kitty shouts. For the second time in a week.
It breaks the spell. The children break into a unified whoop of approval, and then so does the village, so loud that the roar of Fiddleford’s rejoicing can be heard for miles around. It thunders in Robert’s ears as he staggers away down the village street, climbs into his faithful Panda and drives away, never to return again.