‘I should warn you that it is extremely potent. Be very, very careful. Too much mead and you’re anybody’s. Not a care in the world.’ Kate winked wickedly.
Maggie was shocked. Standing in the middle of the school kitchen, propping up her mop, she wondered if Kate was serious. She’d confirm it, straight after school started, with Jimbo. He always knew everything, Jimbo did. He’d know about mead.
‘Are you and Harriet going to the banquet?’ Maggie asked him two hours later in the Store.
Jimbo nodded.
Maggie leaned confidentially against the till counter and asked, ‘You’re serving mead at the banquet, they say. Have you tried it?’
Jimbo nodded again.
‘I’m told it’s very potent.’
He nodded vigorously.
‘Two glasses enough?’
Another nod.
‘Enough to make you drunk?’
He nodded once more.
‘You lost your voice or something?’
One shake of his head.
‘Well, answer me, then. This is getting ridiculous.’
‘Just having fun. You must be the twentieth person who’s come in here since yesterday asking that very same question. I can tell you that we shall all be lucky to sleep in our own beds afterwards.’
‘Sleep in our own beds? Do you mean we’ll never get ’ome?’
‘We’ll get home all right, but it might not actually be
our
home. We’ll be so drunk we shan’t know the difference which bed we’re in.’
‘Oh my God!’ The possibility intrigued Maggie. ‘Jimmy’s? Oh, definitely not. I don’t think he’ll change his sheets that often, do you? And if there’s one thing I can’t abide . . .’ Her nose wrinkled at the thought of unwashed sheets. ‘Or it could be Paddy Cleary’s. He might be small but he’s got some powerful thighs with all that digging he does. Or even Barry Jones. You should see him stripped off sawing wood. Tanned, he is, as if he’s been on a cruise, but what Pat might have to say . . .’
‘Go away! You’re making me blush.’
‘
You
blush? That’s a laugh.’
Purely for devilment Jimbo said, ‘My mother’s going,’ simply because she’d just walked in.
‘Well, if it’s her bed I end up in I’ll definitely realise where I am. There’ll be hell to pay.’ Maggie used a couple of very unkind epithets about her which Grandmama heard.
‘Well, really!’ said Grandmama. ‘Just what are you saying? That my bed linen isn’t clean?’
‘I do apologise! We were only joking and I’d no idea you were here. It was Jimbo who set me off, talking about the mead at the banquet.’
‘Heaven alone knows what you might be saying once you’ve had some, then. And you should know better, Jimbo.’
‘Just improving my customer relations.’
‘I must say you’ve a funny way of doing it. I need one of your coffees. Am I too early?’
‘You most certainly are not. It’s just freshly brewed. This is the second pot today so far. Never been busier. This banquet is bringing me more business than ever.’
‘Where’s Tom?’
‘Taken Evie to the coast. She’s not been well.’
‘Not her old trouble, I hope?’
‘No. Just a heavy cold. She needs some sea air.’
‘Have a coffee with me, Maggie, go on.’
‘Very well, I will. Show there’s no ill feeling.’
Grandmama raised an eyebrow, feeling that if there was any ill will it should be on her part. They squeezed together on the seats provided and Grandmama opened up their conversation. ‘You’re not one of the embroidery group, are you, Maggie?’
‘No, but I wish I was. Where the heck did they get the money from to go to London? They had a smashing time, you know. Theatre, cinema, sightseeing, casino, posh afternoon tea. Do you happen to know how it came about? The men were grumbling like mad about it in the pub while they were away. What puzzled them same as me was where did the money come from? There’s none of ’em earning much.’
‘Well, I happen to know.’ Grandmama tapped the side of her nose and winked.
Maggie gave her a sharp glance. ‘You do?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Well?’
Grandmama leaned closer to Maggie’s ear and whispered, ‘Betting on horses.’
‘No! Really?’
‘Definitely.’
‘So they must be winning a lot, then. My hubby liked a bet on the Derby and the Grand National, that kind of thing, but ’e never won anything big, just a few pounds here and a few pounds there.’
‘No prizes for guessing where they get their tips from.’ Maggie hesitated for a moment and then suggested, ‘Not Ford?’
‘Exactly. You’ve hit the nail on the head.’
‘Well, I never. The cheeky monkeys never even told their husbands.’
There appeared to be a few customers conspicuously lurking close to the greeting cards, which happened to be displayed near the coffee machine, and they were obviously listening in. The result was that the word went round the Store in a flash.
At that very moment, so opportune it was unbelievable, Ford walked in with a parcel for the post. Instead of the usual hubbub he was accustomed to in the Store, silence fell. Ford looked around and called out, ‘Good morning’ loudly and headed straight for the Post Office.
Jimbo leapt into the Post Office ‘cage’. ‘Inland?’
‘Yes. How much?’
‘Three pounds and eight pence.’
‘Right. I want my
Racing Post
while I’m here.’
‘Absolutely. I’ve saved it for you. There’s your change.’
Was this indeed divine intervention? All seven customers in the Store converged on Ford and stood patiently waiting for Jimbo to present him with his paper.
‘Morning, Ford. What’s your tip for today, then? We’ve been hearing all about your kindness.’ This from Don who, well set up at finding out where Vera had got the money for her trip to London, couldn’t let this moment pass by.
Ford grinned. ‘I only give Zack a tip, no one else. Has he been talking?’
They were all a little nonplussed by this remark. Only Zack? What did that mean?
Don asked, ‘And then some. How about my Vera, Evie and that Barbara and them others?’
It was obvious that Ford knew nothing about the increase in his influence in the betting department. ‘I don’t know about them. I thought it was just Zack. Of course! The embroidery group!’ He paused for a moment while they all waited, scarcely breathing in their anticipation. ‘Look, I’m not really in the business of giving out tips, not now, just a favour to my friend Zack. But just this once . . .’
There was a lot of gleeful hand-rubbing, shuffling about in handbags and pockets to find paper and pens, and grins all round.
Ford, loving the idea of an audience, took a while to open his paper. He pretended to study form, with much rustling and head-scratching, then proclaimed, ‘It must be clearly understood that a run of luck is possible, but horses don’t always run to form, as I well know to my cost, so sometimes you’ll lose, sometimes you’ll win and there’s to be no comeback.’ He looked sternly round the group, catching the eye of everyone so there could be no mistaking his meaning. ‘For this weekend, I suggest -
suggest
, mind - Flybynight, two-thirty, Ayr, Saturday.’
He folded his newspaper, stuck it under his arm, and marched out. Coming back in again, he said, ‘It’ll be word of mouth, nothing written down. No evidence. Right?’
‘Right!’ they all promised.
He shouldn’t have agreed, he knew that. It could cause endless bother. But he loved the thrill of it. He’d put bets on all his life and didn’t suppose he’d made a fortune at it. No doubt all he’d done was break even at best. He didn’t bet these days, not since making his fortune in scrap metal, but he missed the rush of adrenalin, the excitement, the disappointment, the triumphs. Merc would kill him.
Crossing the Green, Ford paused to admire the geese busily grazing. He loved the stocks, the huge oak tree they were all so superstitious about, the ancient cottages. Then he glanced across at Glebe House and wondered if indeed they would have been better buying a cottage, as Merc had wanted, because there was one thing for certain: their house would never be full of comings and goings. A cottage would have been big enough. All his fault, too, not Merc’s. It coloured your thoughts, year in year out. Now with no business to keep him occupied twenty-four seven he only had the race meetings to fill his life, though he did love going.
Still, the replies to the banquet invites would be coming in soon and he guessed there wouldn’t be a single refusal. That was going to be the social event of the year! He’d show ’em what life was about, and not half. They all needed waking up. He strode up his garden path with a spring in his step.
But the first reply to the banquet invitation was from Craddock Fitch, on his business headed paper. It was a curt refusal. Ford and Merc were devastated.
‘He’s refused on purpose, not even had the courtesy to claim they’d be away. I’m so disappointed.’ Merc flung his reply down on the breakfast table and buttered her single piece of toast with enough butter for two slices, piled the marmalade on top and bit into it as though breaking a long fast.
Ford couldn’t bear for her to be so bitterly let down. His mission in life, due to his inability to give her children, was to give her everything else she might want, whatever it was. Well, he wasn’t putting up with it. He’d go round this minute and ask why?
‘I’m going for a walk,’ he announced. ‘Shouldn’t stay indoors when the sun’s shining.’
Ford raced upstairs, cleaned his teeth, checked his appearance in the bathroom mirror and set off. He didn’t wear his old gardening boots, couldn’t prance about in that historic old house in them, so he crept out, hoping Merc wouldn’t notice he was wearing his gleaming tan leather shoes, which he wore to race meetings.
It was a long walk up the drive so he had to pause for a moment behind a tree to catch his breath. The view of the Big House was breathtaking. It was quality and not half. Living there you’d feel . . . well, you’d feel special and no mistake. Really special. Slightly intimidated, Ford marched up to the front door and into the magnificent Tudor hall.
Yes, Mr Fitch was in, the receptionist said. Would he please take a seat for a moment while she checked if he was available.
So the beggar was in. Now what did he say? He hadn’t planned what to say he’d been so angry.
The receptionist returned quickly. ‘Do come this way, please. Mr Fitch is free.’
He followed her into a large office.
Hand outstretched in greeting, Ford said, ‘Good morning, Mr Fitch. Kind of you to make time to see me.’
Craddock Fitch sat back in his chair, waved a vague hand towards a chair for Ford to use and waited.
But Ford didn’t speak.
So Mr Fitch said, ‘How can I help you?’
‘Mercedes and I are so excited about the banquet and we want everyone to come and enjoy themselves. Jimbo is performing miracles, he’s making it very special, and it would have given us great delight if the two of you, your wife and yourself, would come. Merc’s so disappointed you’re not coming, and, like you, I expect, I don’t like to disappoint my wife.’
‘Can’t come.’
‘There’ll be excellent food, good wine, entertainment, music in keeping with the period, not pop or rock or whatever, no awkwardness because we all know each other. Please will you come?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me why ever not?’
‘It is not the kind of entertainment I enjoy. In fact, I can’t think of anything more painful. Having to tolerate a whole evening of it would be just . . . well, too much.’