Lots of Love (74 page)

But when Godspell took the microphone, she was singing from a different hymn sheet. It was the moment she had been preparing for all week, coached by a professional rebel. Instead of launching straight into the band’s first number, she started to talk, addressing the crowd – an unfamiliar husky voice that was far more compelling than her cat-on-heat vocals.

‘It’s time to tell the truth about this family,’ she told the bemused guests, her words amplified across the village by a great stack of speakers. ‘It’s about time somebody fucking did.’

The Wyck clan – who made up almost half the audience – let out a great raucous cheer. A small smile twitched at Godspell’s black lips as she winked at them.

‘A good friend told me recently that love is like clay – you can only mould it once, when it’s new and impressionable. As soon as it’s fired, you’re stuck with it until it shatters.’ She looked at Pheely for reassurance and received a hearty thumbs-up from beneath a battered red hat. ‘And this friend wisely says that people who play at matchmaking aren’t sculptors at all, as you might think, but bulls in china shops.

‘A month ago,’ she rasped, crashing a tambourine on her bony hip for emphasis, ‘my father made me sign a contract. He told me that if I refused to, he would burn all my . . . all my beloved pets alive.’ She closed her eyes, thinking of her precious snakes, lizards, insects and arachnids. The tambourine hit the hip again. ‘Today, ladies and gentlemen, you were all supposed to witness a wedding organised by a bull in china shop. My father,’ she pointed him out with the rattling tambourine, ‘Ely Gates, your so-called upstanding villager, a Christian and a family man, is so desperate to get his hands on Oddlode Manor that he blackmailed me into marrying Jasper Belling. Today was to be our wedding day, although it felt like both our funerals.’

There was a shocked intake of breath from the rapidly gathering crowd.

‘Oh, yes.’ Godspell lifted her pointed chin over the microphone. ‘But it seems Jasper’s just got even over Oddlode at last.’ She started to giggle. ‘You all thought he had feet of clay, but he doesn’t. They have wings, like Hermes’. It was his heart that was made of clay, until he fell in love.

‘Only he didn’t fall in love with me. He fell in love with Ellen, who has wings on her feet and her heart and her back. Seeing Spurs with her just for one night taught me that love isn’t something you can manufacture. It’s a one-off, like a sculpture. And I’m grateful. My life, am I grateful – I could almost marry the bastard for teaching me that!’ Her loopy laugh echoed around the marquee. ‘You see, I love somebody too. I want to introduce you to my love, my hero and my one-off . . .’ She turned to her drummer and blew him a kiss, crashing the tambourine against her hip. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Saul Wyck!’

He gazed at her over his snare, one hand automatically seeking out the unicorn tattoo on his bicep with its dark, sultry rider, the other hand rattling out a loud drumroll between bass and torn with shaking sticks.

Uncertain if this was some sort of theatrical sideshow, there was a smattering of applause throughout the marquee. Then the Wyck clan let out another raucous round of cheers and the tent exploded with a delighted, clapping ovation.

Godspell stilled her rattling tambourine against her chest and waited to get their attention back. ‘This is a song I wrote about what’s been going on. It’s called “Ma Rage and Pa Son Money”.’ A moment later Godspell had clutched the microphone to her twisted black mouth and emptied her lungs, causing women and men to flee the marquee as it almost collapsed under the deafening cacophony of Roadkill’s opening number,
‘WHY
did you
STAND
back and
WATCH
the
LAMBS
to the
SLAUGHTER?
Was it because
HE
worships at another’s
ALTAR?
He was a
PIMP
and a
WIMP
to a
SLUT
in a
RUT,
but
I AM YOUR DAUGHTER
!
WHEAAA-AAAAAAEEEEEEEEE-IEEEEEEE
!’

Pheely clenched her fists in victory and started to head-bang along so excitedly that her hat flew off and was trampled by the pogoing Wycks family. Beside her, Ely had pressed his fevered brow to Hell’s Bells substantial shoulders and was openly weeping like a child.

‘Oh, do dry up,’ Hell’s Bells snapped.

Giving Godspell a victorious thumbs-up, Pheely joined the mass marquee exodus, dashing to greet Dilly and Rory, who were trotting across the lawns on their horses, oblivious of Ely’s gardener’s irate protests.

‘You wonderful, loved-up children – well done!’ she gurgled. ‘Now go after Spurs and Ellen and, for God’s sake, catch them before they leave. Tell them we have plenty of time for that farewell drink. Godspell is going for bust – which reminds me.’ She turned to the Wyckses, gave them a Dick Emery wink and shouted, ‘Cue the unveiling, boys!’

When the white awning finally fell from Felicity Gates’s floral arrangement, the few loyal guests still tolerating the decibels in the marquee turned away gratefully from Roadkill’s performance, then drew in a collective breath of even greater shock.

The blooms were perfect, the arrangement divine and the colours exquisite as always. But the centrepiece was as shocking as it was beautiful.

It was obscene. It was flagrant. Nobody could take their eyes from it.

For nestling among the orchids, Asian lilies and cabbage roses was a bronze of a couple, an inseparable couple, giving off so much white-hot heat that each and every person who saw it stepped back.

The figures depicted were unmistakably of Spurs and Ellen.

Pheely cocked her head critically. ‘You know, I think I need a bit more research before I tackle erotic work again.’

At her shoulder a smooth voice said, ‘Only too willing to oblige.’

She looked up and smiled. ‘You have river water in your moustache.’

Giles wiped it away.

‘And, by the way, I think I’m pregnant.’ She sighed dreamily, looking at her sculpture again and patting her stomach, immensely proud of the portrayal, even if she’d been forced to sell the last of her father’s sketchbooks to afford the casting.

‘It’s
terribly
good.’ A hunky youth sidled up to her other shoulder and Pheely excitedly recognised Ely’s nephew Lloyd, the dishy estate agent. He had artist’s muse written all over him, she thought languorously.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ she batted her eyelashes at him, wondering how Ellen could possibly have chosen Spurs above such an Adonis. ‘Watch out where you tread – our local lawyer has fainted down there. Tell me, do you know anything about origami?’

The big grey horse looked up at the dark windows of the spoilt-princess cottage and whickered before he sank down to roll in the paddock, covering his coat in grass stains.

‘He’ll be fine,’ Spurs turned back to the room. ‘Rory can pick him up later. We should go. They’ll be after my blood.’

‘You have no passport,’ Ellen reminded him, sitting on the mattress and flicking one of the clasps of her rucksack open and closed.

He reached out to take her hand, his eyes downcast. ‘I don’t want you to miss out on the World.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She found herself laughing. ‘The World’s right here.’

Starting to laugh too, he suddenly launched himself on to the bed.

‘We’ll go to Cornwall.’ She kissed him.

‘Or Scotland.’ He unbuttoned her shorts.

‘Or Yorkshire.’ She pulled his T-shirt over his head.

‘Or the Isle of Wight?’ He slid his hands beneath her knickers.

‘I’ve heard the Cotswolds are very nice at this time of year.’

‘Really? I’ve heard that too.’

‘There’s the most exquisite little cottage vacant at the moment – the sale has fallen through, apparently.’

‘Is that so? Perhaps we could stay there? Where is it?’

‘Oddlode – very picturesque, I gather.’

‘I know it well. There’s a sports physio based there at the moment who comes very highly recommended. She promised me a massage, but she hasn’t kept her word.’

‘How remiss of her. Do you have any particular ache you’d like her to treat?’

‘Well, now you mention it, my heart was aching like bloody mad, but it seems to have got better all of a sudden. Now the ache is rather lower down.’

‘Let me check it out . . .’

Dilly and Rory stared up at the Goose Cottage windows from horseback and tilted their heads in amazement as the top one started to steam up.

‘I don’t think they’re going anywhere in a hurry, do you?’ Rory suggested.

Dilly shook her head pinkly.

He turned to her. ‘I’ll win the race for you one year.’

‘No – I’ll win it for you.’

‘I’ll win it first.’

They turned to hack back to Manor Farm, arguing happily.

‘Me.’

‘No, me.’

‘Dead heat?’

The cry that issued from Oddlode Manor just after the three forty-five at Ascot could be heard half-way across the valley.

On the nearby lawns of Manor Farm, Ely Gates’s guests looked up, sensing yet more village excitement in what could only be called a truly vintage year.

Hell’s Bells set off wearily along the drive to investigate her husband’s latest losses, but he was already sprinting up Manor Lane towards her. He appeared to be carrying an outraged cat under one arm.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, St John!’ She stepped back in distaste. ‘Must you carry that foul feral mog around with you everywhere? I’ve told you, I hate cats. If it’s unwell, dispatch it with an air rifle.’

‘It’s not unwell – far from it.’ He panted up to her, his face alight in a way that Hell’s Bells hadn’t seen since he was on the front bench exchanging badinage with Kinnock. ‘I’ve told you, cats decide their owners and Godfrey has chosen me.’ He kissed the overweight cat’s black and white head and it looked at him adoringly, then shot Hell’s Bells a dirty look. ‘And he has brought me luck.’ St John rained more kisses on his head. ‘I
told
you he was lucky.’

‘What
are
you talking about, St John?’

‘It came in!’ he shouted, dancing around with the cat. ‘They
all
came in – five long-shots, one after the other, romping home, the beauties.’

Hell’s Bells’ noble face went very still. ‘Tell me this isn’t a joke?’

He shook his head, still laughing. ‘It is no joke m’dear. We’re rich. WE . . . ARE . . . RICH!’

‘Oh, my house. My beloved house.’ She clasped her chest, turning paler and paler. ‘It doesn’t need to be sold.’ She battled for breath, reaching out to his arm for support. ‘We can mend the roof. We can keep the horses. We can save the River Folly.’

‘Don’t overexcite yourself, m’ dear.’ He patted her hand, lowering his voice to a broken whisper. ‘I know that you are unwell.’

She looked up at him sharply and he shrugged, the spaniel-ears hair flopping over his face. ‘Gladys overheard you talking with Spurs. She thought I knew. My poor Bell.’ The big, faded blue eyes looked away, distraught. ‘I would happily give away every penny if it brought your health back.’

Hell’s Bells nodded curtly, then smiled suddenly, very wickedly. ‘Actually, I’m in rather rude health.’

‘You mean you lied to the boy?’ He spluttered.

‘I simply let his misguided interpretation of the facts pass unchecked.’ She was not married to a politician for nothing. ‘He found a letter from the homeopathic vet and seemingly mistook the identity of the patient. He thought I was Gladstone.’

‘You led him to believe that you were a Labrador with advanced cancer of the spleen?’

She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Don’t ever let me hear you say that in front of the puppies. It is haemangiosarcoma. Gladstone doesn’t understand long words.’

‘Sorry, m’dear,’ St John humoured her with a kindly pat before chortling. ‘Good grief. I know that Jasper has done some very bad things, but don’t you think that was a little harsh on the lad?’

‘I was testing his grit.’

His eyes softened with love as he remembered why he had married her. She was a formidable woman. ‘And?’

‘It’s rather gritty.’

‘Perhaps it’s best that he didn’t marry the Gates child, then?’ He hooked his arm through hers.

‘God, yes – especially now we don’t need the money. It would have been quite frightful. Are we really terribly rich?’

‘Rather.’

‘Richer than Elijah?’

‘I’ll say.’

‘What fun! Shall we throw a party?’

Ellen pressed her palms firmly into the muscles to either side of Spurs’ spine, watching the bronzed, freckled skin wrinkling as she leaned into the pressure, stretching forward to roll the stroke up to his shoulders. ‘This would be better with oils,’ she apologised.

‘It’s beautiful like that.’ He eyed her over his shoulder.

Sinking the length of her body into the hollows of his back, she touched her nose against his. ‘I kept my promise, after all.’

He kissed her. ‘And I kept mine.’

Their lips formed words and laughter that were kissed away before they shared unspoken happiness on a mattress labelled ‘Spain’.

Hours later, Spurs propped himself up on one elbow and looked out of the tiny shoebox window to where an aeroplane had left a white scar in the blue sky. ‘I think we’ve missed our flight.’

‘There’ll be others.’ She stretched up to kiss him. ‘I’m flying too high to wear a seatbelt.’

He laughed, pressing her back against the mattress. ‘You know you still have one wish left?’

‘Not
still
?’ She groaned, laughing.

‘You wished we’d never met. I can’t grant that. You’ll have to pick another.’

She reached up a hand and traced the curve of his jaw with her finger, knowing that she would be able to examine it from every angle and in every season – tanned, pale, stubbled, grey-bearded, laughing, tense and relaxed in sleep – until she grew too old to see.