Guilty Pleasures (2 page)

Ten to two. Thanks to that precious loo, which turned out, though basic, to have a washbasin and plenty of floor space, I washed, brushed up and changed into a pretty retro dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt. I'd picked it up for a song, but it made me feel like a million dollars, and the blue went particularly well with the sun hat Griff had insisted I take. Actually, since I was in the shade, and I thought it made me look like someone from a nursery rhyme, I gave up on the hat and popped it safely in the van, remembering to set the alarm.

And here at last was our Celebrity, apparently a soap actor, but since soaps were one thing Griff would never let us watch I was none the wiser. There were a few tentative screams from a gaggle of girls who probably wouldn't buy anything, and a flutter of applause. His speech, delivered in a mockney accent, was well-nigh inaudible. More applause, and time to sell.

Not buy, of course. Well, to be frank I had already liberated a couple of the books from the cardboard boxes, not because they were valuable but because I wanted to read them. And I'd paid full whack, telling the garden-produce man what I was doing and making him witness the money I was putting into the tin. A tin! So naive! I should have brought a bumbag, so I could stow cash safely and keep an eye on roving hands. Actually, I needed an assistant. Who could I ask? I didn't know a soul, of course. There was no sign of Robin. Perhaps he was escorting the Celeb around. I was surprised I hadn't seen him earlier, to be honest, but then vicars had lots of things other than fêtes to worry about, especially when this fête was in the fierce hands of the woman I was thinking of as the Commandant. But they were capable hands, too. She'd spotted my difficulties and was over in an instant.

‘Backup on its way!' she barked, trying to hide her jungle of teeth behind thin lips. Why had the NHS, so good at dental work, let her down so badly?

I nearly saluted, but limited myself to giving my friendliest smile and thanking her.

She was back in two minutes with two reliable-looking middle-aged men. Actually, Celeb and Robin apart, all the men ranged from middle-aged to what Griff insists is merely mature, as did the women. ‘They can take over here. Marjorie's sending up distress flares! You're needed over on bric-a-brac.'

I really didn't want to be on bric-a-brac. It was too much of a busman's holiday. On the other hand, something was calling me from that direction. Quite loudly.

For some reason I'd been born what some of my mates call a divvy. Like a diviner finding water in a desert, I can scent from afar a precious item that no one else has noticed. It's a physical summons. You'd think it was a priceless gift, but in fact it's a two-edged sword. It never functions when I want it to. Just when it happens to call.

And it happened to call from a stall where I'd touched every single item without getting so much as a whisper.

Because a whole mass of people seethed round the tables, I managed to ignore the call for a good twenty minutes or so. I beat up the price on a couple of things that punters had probably picked up and then abandoned in the wrong section, and ruthlessly slashed a price I'd slapped on an item before I saw the crack that was now obvious to me, if not to the buyer. Seeing the mountain of rubbish still remaining, I grabbed a piece of card and a marker from Marjorie's basket and scrawled:
50P FOR ANY 2 ITEMS – THIS TABLE!
And yes, I did check there was nothing of value on the table before I put it in place. I even tried to move the table slightly to one side to avoid confusion. What was stopping the back legs? Stooping to have a look, I found some empty boxes and a couple of full ones.

‘It's stuff I didn't have room for,' Marjorie explained. ‘And Fiona says some of it's from Colonel Bridger, too,' she added in the reverent tone country people seem to keep for people who they think are their betters. I knew my father and never used it. Now wasn't the time to ask about this colonel, though, because she was off again. ‘So I've got to put it out, although as far as I can see it's worse than the rest of your fifty pence table.'

My heart would have sunk, but for one thing. My divvy voice shouted, like on the old TV game-show,
open the boxes!

‘I can hold the fort while you sort it out,' Marjorie said.

So I had to.

As she'd said, there was nothing remotely promising to be seen. Some fellow dealers made a living out of kitchenalia, but even they'd have been hard put to wangle more than a quid from the first box I opened. The next box really should have gone to my original stall. It contained half a dozen really old Georgette Heyer paperbacks still in pristine condition, so I thought if no one else wanted them I'd buy them for Griff, who read Heyer in bed if he fancied he had the 'flu.

There was also a bigger book – folio size – pretty well falling apart, with the front cover and frontispiece missing. But surely it was more important than everything on the bric-a-brac tables put together, full of designs for chairs and so on, eighteenth century by the look of them. I didn't think they were by Adam, but they were that sort of period. A scholar would have pounced on the book, even though the back cover looked as if mice had been at it, and all the pages were badly foxed. Not knowing any scholars, I thought of English Heritage or the National Trust, or a couple of major libraries. So I had to buy it. No one else would, and it would be a sin to send it to landfill, the threat hanging over all the other unsold books in too poor a state to wish on Oxfam. But I'd no idea how much I should put into that tin. If only Robin was around.

I tried to explain the situation to Marjorie, but she only gave me half an ear. ‘Just take the thing, do, my dear. Give me a pound if it would make you feel better. Is there anything else down there?'

If my instinct was anything to go by, there certainly was. Old hairbrushes and combs thick with hair and dandruff; chipped saucers, none matching; a tiny box, tarnished to within an inch of its life, with an embossed lid. It was too filthy for me to read the hallmark. Was that what was calling? Oh, yes. Though I'd no idea why. But there was something else too. My hand hovered. Over a screw of paper a couple of inches long. I opened it carefully, squeaked with delight, and turned it upside down. There! Crossed swords. Of course, other makers used crossed swords too, but this felt like quality Meissen. I knew where I was with this, at least.

‘Look, Marjorie – isn't it lovely?'

‘Pretty little thing – a parrot, is it?'

‘Yup. Not just any parrot. A miniature Meissen parrot. Look, I could sell this for – let me think – about a hundred and twenty pounds, maybe more. And the box . . . Who knows? I'll pay you a hundred and fifty pounds for both. And if I make any more, which I may well, I promise to give it to Robin direct. Does that sound fair?'

‘It sounds admirable to me, Lina,' said a voice. Robin at last.

‘Let me write an IOU. And the same for this book of patterns.'

‘Lina, you gave your word. That's enough for me. And I'm sure for Marjorie too.'

I shook my head. ‘Griff's dinned it into me I must keep records – not just for your benefit but for mine.' I grabbed another of Marjorie's cards and wrote, signing and dating my bargain. ‘Your signature too, please, Robin.'

He signed with a sudden flourish, laughing as he recounted Josephine Public's attempts to get the Celeb's autograph. For some reason he'd steadfastly refused to put pen to anything, even for money.

I didn't join in the general derision. Perhaps like me he was embarrassed by his handwriting; certainly, he hadn't had hours of patient help to improve it, as I had done.

As Robin put down the pen, a hand appeared from nowhere and grabbed the silver box.

TWO

R
obin might look saintly, but he'd once been an amateur boxer. He'd also done time, as he put it, as a curate in a rough northern parish where the very few people who were in his congregation were more likely to take money off the collection plate than put it in. So his reflexes were good.

But the box disappeared before he could even cry out. The box, the hand, and, almost, the man attached to both. Younger than Mel, as far as I could see.

My reflexes weren't bad, although I'd learnt my skills at a far less orthodox school of fighting than Robin's. And I was pretty quick on my feet. So, vaulting over the table, I gave chase. Yelling ‘Stop, thief!' might have been a good idea, if I'd had breath to spare, but at least Marjorie managed it – thin, squeaky, but a yell all the same. I was almost on the guy when someone got the wrong idea and shoved a foot under not the thief's legs but my mine. I went down. My skirt went up. And that was the end of my chase, not to mention my dignity.

‘Don't worry about me! Get that bastard,' I shouted, forgetting where I was.

After a vital second's hesitation, Robin accelerated past me and had almost caught up with Lightfingers when a small object hurtled on to a gravestone. It took Robin's eye off his target for a vital second, and the thief was over the churchyard wall and into the adjoining woodland.

By now I was on my feet, hands and knees smarting with gravel-rash. All the same, I was mobile enough to make for whatever the thief had dropped. It was the poor box, now battered as well as tarnished. The impact had burst it open and strained the hinge holding the lid to the body. It came apart in my hands.

It seemed that first-aid to silver, in pieces or not, was not Robin's main concern. He didn't know whether to identify and rebuke whoever had tripped me, or to minister to my injuries. As for me, there was such a commotion amongst the stallholders and the visitors that I was afraid of more thefts, so I caught the Commandant's eye.

‘First-aid box in loo,' she barked. Then, turning to the others, she declared, ‘Nothing to worry about, good people. Plenty of tea in the pot. Loads of raffle tickets left. Let's do fête!'

A woman after my own heart.

The gravel rash was much less serious than that I'd had most weeks when I was a kid, but for some reason hurt much more. I must have forgotten how to fall. The main victim was the poor dress, and I spent more time swishing cold water on the bloodstains than on the whole of my own treatment.

There was a hammering on the door. My disappearance must have alarmed someone, or perhaps all those elderly bladders were panicking. Calling that I was fine and wouldn't be a minute, I tidied the place up a bit. And stowed the snuffbox where no one could get at it – thank goodness for the full skirt, which covered any giveaway bulge.

Sympathetic hands reached for me as I emerged, and I submitted to being guided to the refreshment tent, where I was loaded with tea and cakes. But I'm not really one to be coddled and fussed over by strangers, so I took the cup and plate back to the bric-a-brac stall, ready to return to work.

‘Come on, folk,' I called. ‘If it's worth nicking, it's worth buying. Let's see your money now! Roll up, roll up.' Sounded convincing.

Maybe it was my curiosity value that brought people flocking round. Whatever it was, we sold about five times as much as we had before, people pressing notes into our hands and not asking for change.

One person who I didn't see, however, was Robin. What had happened to him?

At last the surge died down. Nothing eluded the eye of the Commandant.

‘Only another fifteen minutes to go before we can shut up shop. Did well there,' she said. ‘Patched yourself up all right?'

I nodded, afraid she'd demand to see the dressings. ‘Any idea where Robin might be?'

‘Saw him at the apple-bobbing. Or maybe at the Chuck a Sponge. The far side of the church.'

Assuring her I could find him myself, I pottered off. There was a lot of splashing and laughter, but no Robin.

Before I could explore further, the Commandant called me over. ‘Crisis on the bookstall!'

It was the organist, wanting to know whether Edward Marston and Amy Myers could be considered hard-boiled. I told her cheerily I'd no idea but that I liked the jackets, so she added them to her pile.

The funny thing about fêtes is you never get time to look at what should be the focus of the whole event, the church itself. At last, all the remaining bric-a-brac and books were repacked. Apart from those heading for Oxfam, some boxes were destined for the tip; others were going back in store in someone's barn so their contents could have another dreary outing next year. Why? If no one wanted the stuff now, why would they want it when it was a year older and smelt even mustier?

At last I could emerge from the shadow of the tomb – which, come to think of it, might have been the title of one of the books the organist had bought – and have a look round.

Whatever other skills the congregation had, flower arranging must have been up there with the best. The wooden-walled porch was so full of early sweet peas and roses that you could hardly smell the dry rot. Inside, other flowers glowed from the base of each squat pillar, each deeply recessed window sill. The font, huge and solid, quite out of proportion in the tiny nave, was surrounded by carnations. Exotic flowers I couldn't name cascaded from the altar. There was even a little posy on the end of each pew. The thought hit me quite uninvited: if ever I got married, I'd like it to be in a church like this.

I sat down on one of the choir stalls out of sight to ponder. Not so much about finding a man I might love enough to marry, but about leaving the man to whom I owed everything – Griff. It would be unbearable for us both. Worse than Emma trying to leave poor Mr Woodhouse, in that novel neither of us liked very much. At least there was no Mr Knightley to trouble Griff and me just at the moment, and although there'd been a couple of Frank Churchills – far worse than Frank Churchill, to be honest – my heart had been no more than dented. Rather like that box, except I'd never been unhinged; at least, not since Griff had taken me into his life. How about that for a simile? – no, I mean a metaphor. When you get things like that right, after all the things I've got wrong in my life, you can't help smiling, so I gave God a thank you smile – I was in His house after all, and liked to be polite, most of the time, at least.