With a bright red nose and a map of capillary veins stretching over his cheeks, Jack Webster bore all the signs of a heavy drinker. He peered blearily into Annabel’s face. “What the bloody hell is wrong with your eyes? You look like the bionic woman.”
“If you’re talking about Dr. Frost,” Annabel said haughtily, “he’s working tonight, Mr. Webster.”
“Working? Hah!” He turned to Amelia. “
Working?
Breaking up someone else’s marriage more like. While the husband’s away, the wife will play. And him out risking his life in the North Sea.”
Annabel turned pale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Amelia said desperately. “Come along, luv. Let’s go back to the bar.”
Jack swayed unsteadily on his feet, shouting, “You can bloody well tell him from me and the cutters, this is his last warning? Understand?” before allowing Amelia to drag him away.
“Why would he say a thing like that?” Annabel said. “Horrid man.”
My suspicions as to Dr. Frost’s extramarital activities had just been confirmed and poor Annabel didn’t have a clue. I wondered who it could be.
“Let’s find where we’re sitting,” said Annabel.
The seating plan comprised of circular tables for eight people, with a raised celebrity table for GSRF officials complete with neatly labeled place cards. CHIEF
MARSHAL—DOUGLAS FLEMING, SCRUTINEER—TONY PER-KINS, SECRETARY—OLIVE LARCH, and BOOKIE/ M.C.—LEONARD EVANS.
I noted that Mrs. Evans had already taken her place at the top table, looking very done up with her newly coiffed tight perm and wearing a buttercup yellow dress.
On the wall behind her, a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II was flanked by enlarged photographs of past snail champions. A handwritten card gave a brief description of each snail’s athletic achievements. It would appear that no snail had yet to beat Archie who competed in the World Snail Racing Championship in 1995. Archie made the
Guinness World Records
on completion of the thirteen-inch sprint with a staggering time of two minutes and twenty seconds.
The revelers were already dividing into groups. Jack Webster and his hedge-cutting friends—Errol Fairweather, Eric Tossell, John Reeves, Larry Green, and all their wives—occupied two full tables; the Gipping Bards, two more. There was one for the Women’s Institute, Pennymoor Morris Dancers, Gipping Riding Club, Eco-Warriors—even the juvenile gang, the Swamp Dogs, was dressed up in rented tuxedos and sitting with their parents.
On the far side of the room sat the hedge-jumpers, who had brought in an art easel on which to prop a huge placard SUPPORT YOUR OLYMPIC 2012 TEAM. Dave Randall was demonstrating a new style of jump—presumably the Larch Leap—using a gym horse that he must have dragged from the games equipment cupboard.
“There’s our lot,” I said, spotting Wilf who was joined by Edward, Paige—Edward’s very sweet wife—and Pete at the
Gazette
table close to the stage. Barbara pushed past them and snagged the empty seat next to Wilf, for whom she’d held a crush for donkey’s years, obviously forfeiting her place at the Gipping Bards table of which she was a key member.
We headed over—I lost count of the number of compliments or the amount of times that Annabel told everyone, “Trust me, Vicky took a
lot
of work” and “Do you like my eyes?”
“Don’t our girls look pretty, sir?” Barbara touched Wilf’s arm and leaned into him slightly but he was too preoccupied studying the
Mollusk Monthly
newsletter that had been left on every chair.
“Hi, Pete.” Annabel wriggled behind Wilf and squeezed into the spare seat next to our unusually dapper-looking chief reporter. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’m looking for a place to sit. Any suggestions?”
“I’m afraid you can’t sit there,” said a pleasant voice behind me. I turned and saw a dainty blonde with a snub nose in a simple black gown. “You must be Annabel.”
Annabel leapt to her feet, while Pete stared down at his plate and mumbled something that sounded like, “Bollocks.”
“I’m Pete’s wife, Emily,” the blonde said with a smile. “And I’m sorry to say that it seems all the chairs at this table are snapped up.”
“Hello, Emily,” I said quickly, offering my hand. “I’m Vicky. Pete’s spoken so much about you.”
“Really? That does surprise me.” Emily smiled again, but I saw the coldness in her dark green eyes. “What a pity you two lovely girls will have to sit elsewhere.”
“But there are two empty seats,” Barbara protested.
“I believe they are already spoken for,” Emily said coolly. “Isn’t that right Peter?”
Pete mumbled something again, and opened his copy of the
Mollusk Monthly
saying, “Seabiscuit is looking good, Wilf.”
“No worries!” I said brightly. “We thought we’d just come by and say hello. Hello. See you all later. Bye.” I took Annabel’s arm and steered her back toward the bar. Fortunately, the band was on another break.
“My God. What a bitch!” Annabel downed two glasses of cheap champagne in quick succession. “Poor Pete. How awful to be married to her.”
“We’d better find another table,” I said, scanning the room, which was rapidly filling up with guests.
“Not near the Rawlings’s, okay?” said Annabel. “Or Quentin Goss. I saw him with his wife, too. Oh! And definitely not by the Women’s Institute. They all hate me.”
Sounds of “testing-testing-one-two-one-two,” squawked from Mr. Evans’s microphone signaling that the evening program was about to begin. “Ladies and gentleman, pleeeeease take your seats!”
There was a panicked rush to the tables for those left standing—rather like musical chairs. Annabel and I searched for two seats as Ronnie Binns barreled toward us, firing off photographs from a surprisingly professional-looking camera. He must be making extremely good money as a garbologist.
Suddenly, the opening chords of “God Save the Queen” blasted through the room. Ronnie stopped dead in his tracks and pulled himself up to his full height, shoulders thrust back. There was a screeching of chairs as everyone scrambled to their feet and turned to face the portrait of Queen Elizabeth at the top table.
“Back to the foyer,” I shouted over the noise. “Let’s regroup.”
We were almost out of the ballroom-cum-gymnasium, when Annabel pointed to a table in the far corner. “Four seats at two o’clock! Oh!
God!
” She gave a cry of delight. “There’s that
sailor
!”
Unfortunately, Topaz and Steve were also sitting there. I hesitated, torn between wanting to be close to my darling Robin. I didn’t relish being next to the new lovebirds—though it seemed Annabel wasn’t bothered. I distinctly recalled that she had once succumbed to Steve’s charms, too. Annabel obviously had a very short memory or deliberately chose to forget about it.
Robin was standing to attention in a full, regimental salute. He looked so handsome in his white dress uniform I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Next to Robin, Eunice was belting out “God Save the Queen” in a powerful soprano.
While I hesitated, Annabel moved fast. She scuttled over to the table and tried to introduce herself to Robin during the second verse but he just stared stoically ahead.
In the end, Annabel sheepishly gave up and took the empty chair on Eunice’s right.
I was surprised that the proceedings had started without Douglas Fleming or Olive Larch. Their two places stood empty at the top table. I hoped she hadn’t had another of her episodes, or perhaps Fleming had changed his mind about appearing in public so soon after his wife’s death.
I kept wondering who could have made that mysterious phone call. Every time I glanced around the room—mainly to get a glimpse of Robin on my left—I met Steve’s blue eyes staring steadily at me. Twice, he blew me a kiss and mouthed the words, “You look
hot
!”
“
God
, this is endless,” Annabel muttered, as the anthem ground on to a third verse, and then a fourth. The singing became less strident as voices dropped off, one-by-one. Only the Women’s Institute, who knew the words to all six verses, gamely carried on.
An unexpected trip around the drum kit, punctuated by a crash of the cymbals all but drowned out the final verse, followed by thunderous applause that grew even louder when Douglas Fleming walked in with Olive Larch on his arm. She looked very nice in a sparkling pale blue ensemble and tiny tiara in her cropped hair.
It would appear that the widower was not prostrate with grief after all.
“Please welcome your hosts. . . .” Mr. Evans paused, cupping his ear for
another
drum roll from the band. “Douuuuglas Fleming and Olllllive Larch!”
More applause followed. A bread roll sailed across the room and landed in the middle of the dance floor. Unfortunately our table was tucked in the corner so I couldn’t see who threw it though I noted that Topaz leapt to her feet, eyes darting left, right, and center. It would seem she had been right to expect trouble.
When I turned to Robin again, I realized he was fussing over Eunice who sat rigidly upright, clutching a butter knife. Her face had turned an unattractive mottled red. Beads of sweat were accumulating on her brow. Annabel grabbed a copy of the
Mollusk Monthly
and started to flap it at Eunice’s head.
“She doesn’t like that,” Robin snapped, and snatched the leaflet from Annabel’s hands.
“I was only trying—”
“Don’t panic!” Steve hoisted himself out of his chair. His bulk seemed to get tangled up in the tablecloth. Fortunately, Topaz managed to hold the hem and save the place settings.
“Medic coming through!” Steve cried. “Keep breathing, doll.” He knelt beside Eunice. “I’ll take over now. Head between the knees, luv.”
“Thank you. I’ll go and fetch her wrap from the car.” Robin turned to me. “Vicky, a word in private, please.”
Robin wanted to talk to me,
alone
! I stood up to follow.
“I’m coming, too,” said Annabel.
“I think you’d better stay and save our seats,” I said quickly. “The event was overbooked and there’ll be latecomers.”
Leaving Annabel to pout, I hurried after Robin and found him waiting for me in a small alcove at the bottom of the stairs.
Even though the circumstances were highly inappropriate, I couldn’t help hoping that Robin would sweep me into his arms saying, “Vicky, I can’t stand it any longer.” He’d pull me close to his manly chest, uttering, “You’re so beautiful. Much more beautiful than Annabel. Say you’ll be mine.”
“We’ve got a problem,” he said.
I came back to earth with a bang. “We have?”
“Are the rumors about Douglas Fleming and Olive Larch, true?”
“I haven’t heard anything.”
“Perhaps your pretty friend might know?”
“The one with the bionic woman contact lenses?” I heard myself say then wished I hadn’t sounded so catty.
Robin smiled at that remark—
I love making him laugh
—but his expression quickly changed to one of concern. “Mum told me she filled you in on Auntie’s health problems so I don’t need to tell you what might happen if Fleming doesn’t keep his promise.”
A worm of foreboding began to grow in the bottom of my stomach. “What promise?”
“Auntie told me you’d insisted that Fleming never stopped loving her.” Robin’s voice held a hint of accusation. “Is that true?”
“Not . . . not . . . in those exact words.”
“She only needs the
slightest
encouragement,” Robin said exasperated.
“I didn’t know.” I felt slightly annoyed. Surely he wasn’t blaming
me
for Eunice’s state of mind?
“If he marries someone else . . .” Robin took a deep breath. “I’m afraid of what she might do.”
Suddenly, I saw Eunice at St. Peter’s again and her euphoria at Douglas Fleming’s eligible status; the way she had shown up at his office with a plateful of biscuits all dressed up like a dog’s dinner. The phone calls she claimed Fleming had made and her jealous reaction to Olive Larch.
Good
grief
! What if she tried to get rid of Olive?
I looked at Robin’s face. It was etched with anguish. “Sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be burdening you with my troubles.”
“You’re not at all. Really,” I said, trying hard not to look thrilled. I
wanted
to be burdened by Robin.
“I’m away so much and Mum and Auntie don’t really get along.” Robin reached out and took my hand. “And then she’s always in trouble with the police. Don’t you reporters know people in the police force who could occasionally pull in a favor?”
“Well, it depends what it is,” I said.
“I just wish someone would keep an eye on her. Do you know of anyone who might?”
“Me!” I cried. The words had tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Idiot, Vicky, idiot!
When I’d originally thought of offering my services, I’d had no idea that Eunice had some form of mental problem.
“You really mean that? I don’t know how to thank you.” Robin lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. I’d expected to feel a frisson of je ne sais quoi, but felt absolutely nothing. I was obviously still in shock at the gargantuan task I’d just let myself in for.
“Just check on her every day and make sure she
always
takes her medication.”
Medication
? “Of course.”
“You’ll have to get that from Dr. Bodger in Newton Abbot.”
“But, that’s miles away,” I said. “What’s wrong with Dr. Frost?”
“She can’t stand him.” Robin dropped my hand. “I’m going back to the table but you wait here for a few moments. I don’t want Auntie to think we were talking about her.”
“What about her wrap?”
“She didn’t bring one.” And with that, Robin was gone.
It was with a mixture of optimism and dread that I counted to twenty before returning to our table. True, I loved the fact that Robin felt indebted to me and that we would be in daily contact when he went back to H.M.S.
Dauntless
. But I was deeply uncomfortable about this so-called keeping an eye on Eunice that I had promised so rashly to do. I was an investigative journalist, not a nanny. Somehow, I felt just a tiny bit taken advantage of. Perhaps this was what it was like to be in a relationship?
Love me; love my family.