Working Wonders (27 page)

Gwyneth was wandering down by the river, lost in a dream. The frost patterns on the ground were enchanting and, from a primary school down the road, there was the sound of tentatively played Christmas carols. Just now, ‘Torches! Torches!’ was ringing out with some gusto, along with a little off-time triangle.

It was a sunny morning, and she needed to think. The party had definitely been peculiar. Rafe had been blushing, and so sweet, but Arthur … He had been cold and stand-offish to her after the joust, even when everyone else had been celebrating. Could she have been wrong about him? Could he be interested in her after all? Oh God, there was so much work to do; she couldn’t waste all this time dithering between a man who could ride, with a very cute tush, and someone – someone she couldn’t work out at all. He seemed … There was something almost other-worldly about him, sometimes, in the way he looked at her, as if he understood her on some deep level.

Which was rubbish, she thought to herself. Given the chances he’s missed already. Grragh! She tried to think of something else. It wasn’t easy.

They had the meeting date, finally. Arthur had spent all day on the phone, apologizing to the Mediaeval Knights company, desperately trying to get the European commission on the phone, and begging Howard not to write a horrible piece for the newspaper (to no avail: Howard had listened carefully to everything Arthur had to say, nodded, agreed with the difficulty of his position and filed ‘
City of Culture Pretenders Steal Horse, Run Rampage
’).

Gwyneth smiled to herself, remembering Arthur’s expression at that one, and she was pleased she felt tender towards him like that. She moved onwards, not noticing the solitary figure of Fay, meandering along the opposite bank, half sick of shadows and trailing her hands through the willows.

Lynne blinked. She had reappeared as unpredict ably as ever, muttering crossly about something which sounded like ‘Mongolian lion-birds’, and looking more dishevelled than ever.

‘He won a joust?’

‘That’s bad, isn’t it?’

Lynne shook her head. ‘No, no. We just see this quite a lot. Some traditions seem to work themselves out through the generations … I wouldn’t worry about it.’

‘But, I mean … What’s causing it?’

Lynne shrugged. ‘Oh, you know – the mystic forces.’

‘Oh,
those
mystic forces.’

Arthur chewed the side of his mouth.

‘Ah,’ said Lynne. ‘You’re chewing the Gwyneth side of your mouth.’

‘I’m
what
?’

‘What’s troubling you?’

‘Nothing. Well, only that I thought we were … I thought we were really getting somewhere. But not when someone would MUCH rather give scarves to other people.’

‘How were you getting somewhere?’

‘I don’t know! I put my arm around her for a whole flight!’

‘Cool beans,’ said Lynne.

‘Cool beans? Do you even know what that expression means?’

Lynne looked almost embarrassed. ‘We shall forget that instance. I have trouble with this sarcasm standard.’

‘No kidding,’ said Arthur.

‘Indeed, I am not kidding. Have you talked to her?’

‘What? What is it with you therapists and talking all the time?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lynne. She ferreted around on her shelves and finally came up with an enormous, leatherbound hard-backed tome. Blowing the dust off the cover, she slowly opened it. Arthur leaned over until he could see the spine. It was called
Thye Moderne Art and Methode of Psychologie, as Pracktised by Humans
.

‘Here,’ said Lynne, pointing to page one. In beautiful ornate print it said:

Instructions on the aforementioned pracktice
Pretende to Listen at all times.
Suggest they talke unto each other
.

There was nothing else on the page. Nor, as she turned over, on any of the other pages. The book was totally blank.

‘I see,’ said Arthur.

‘I suggest,’ said Lynne, drawing herself up proudly, ‘you talk to each other!’

‘You utter bloody buggering bastard!’ Arthur was screaming into the telephone as Gwyneth walked into the room.

‘It’s okay!’ said Arthur. ‘They’d already hung up on me.’

‘That
is
okay,’ said Marcus. ‘Um, what is it?’

‘Nothing! Only,
apparently
, the letters of invitation to attend the presentation went out to everyone at the same time, two weeks ago.’

‘So how come we didn’t get one?’

‘Exactly! Do you think there’s a mole in here?’

‘Just a smelly dog,’ said Marcus. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. Didn’t you have that dodgy newspaperman in?’

‘It wouldn’t have been him,’ said Arthur. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’

Sandwiches leaped up from where he’d been sleeping in the corner and sauntered out of the office, a determined cast to his paws.

‘Okay, everyone.’ Arthur stood up. ‘Staff meeting! Three o’clock. And I want us all ready with strategy.’

There was some muttering round the room. Gwyneth sat down quietly.

‘OKAY?’

Everyone sat round the conference table studiously staring at their notepads. Rafe had a livid bruise running down his hand from where he’d slid down his horse. The restaurant management had been very good about it, considering the black rider had resigned on the spot, the queen was having convulsions and even the horses had decided to show their excitement by crapping extensively all over the floor and a little too close to Arthur’s chicken for comfort. Bar takings had trebled and Ross and his henchmen had filtered out the back door.

The work was bearing down on them at a rate of knots. It was a week until Christmas, then January twenty-sixth was the date sent to them on the replacement form. The E.C. papers were due to be handed in on Friday. They would have half an hour to present their case in London, as Ross had hinted, rather than Brussels as they’d first imagined; then they had to hang around in case there were supplementary questions, then … Well, then they’d find out. And either start the biggest job in the world, or – well, Arthur didn’t like to think about the alternative to doing that. He wanted to find a moment to talk to Gwyneth, but there never seemed to be a spare minute. He thought he’d spotted her looking at him, but he didn’t really trust his own instincts in that department these days.

‘Right, everyone. Okay. We have a big meeting to prepare for.’

‘Why? Is something happening? said Sven.

Arthur shot him a look. ‘I realize that we’re all meant to have an equal voice around this table, but I’m tempted to rescind the privilege.’

‘You can try,’ said Sven. ‘And fai—’

‘OKAY,’ Arthur repeated loudly. ‘Presentation. We only have half an hour. We have to decide what to say and in what order. We’re all going except Cathy.’

‘Public speaking gives me asthma,’ she said, looking as cheery about this fact as she always did about anything else.

‘Well, we’ve got that brilliant maze model,’ said Marcus.

‘Um,’ said Sven.

‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ said Gwyneth, taking notes. ‘It’s so beautiful. You can relate to it immediately. Ooh, could we have a model of the town? With the maze as the centrepiece? I know it would be big, but …’

‘Um,’ said Sven again.

‘Are you waiting your turn to say something?’ said Arthur. ‘I approve.’

‘No,’ said Sven. He looked slightly red. ‘The thing is …’

‘Where
is
the maze model?’ said Rafe suddenly. ‘I thought we usually had it out, in here.’

Sven cricked his neck.

‘Okay, what?’ said Arthur.

‘Sandwiches ate the maze,’ said Sven quickly in a small voice.

‘
No
,’ said Gwyneth. ‘That thing was art.’

‘And looked like dinner.’

‘It looked – and smelled – like a bunch of cardboard HEDGES!’

‘I’m sorry, okay?’

‘Where is he?’ said Gwyneth.

‘I think it’s probably too late to give him trouble now,’ said Arthur.

‘Well, he’s not stupid. He’s not even here. He’s probably lurking behind the door.’

‘Okay, no maze,’ said Arthur. ‘That’s a shame. A model would have been a good idea, but it would have been difficult to carry to London anyway.’

‘What about computer modelling?’ said Marcus thoughtfully. ‘You know, take some pictures of Coventry, then stick our stuff on top so it looks like a real photograph?’

‘Brilliant,’ said Arthur. ‘I’ve no idea how that might work, but it sounds good to me.’

‘What if they decide that the photographs are good enough on their own and we don’t have to build anything?’ said Gwyneth. ‘Sorry. Silly question.’

‘How are we doing on the lighting, Rafe?’ asked Arthur.

‘Really well!’ said Rafe, looking surprised. ‘It’s mostly old ladies who live on those streets, and do you know, they’ve all been really nice and friendly to us!’

Cathy and Gwyneth swapped a look.

‘Really,’ said Arthur. ‘That’s nice. Well done.’

‘I spoke to Johann,’ said Sven. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. No problem. It’s all to do with density, you see.’

‘What?’ said Marcus. ‘Like how dense your dog is when he eats the plans?’

The returning Sandwiches’s nose had just become visible behind the door. It suddenly disappeared.

‘No! It’s all hi-tech physics stuff you wouldn’t understand.’

‘I might understand it,’ said Marcus. ‘Try me.’

‘La la la,’ said Sven. ‘Arthur, do you think they might like me to sing a Danish song at the presentation?’

‘Definitely not,’ said Arthur. ‘Right. And we’ve got our jugglers – and doesn’t that knight want to set up outdoor jousting with you, Rafe?’

‘Probably not on the ice, though, eh?’ said Gwyneth.

‘No, of course not.’

‘In the park,’ said Rafe. ‘If people want. We could have a whole mediaeval fayre day, get people to dress up. We could raise money for – I don’t know, a kidney machine charity or something.’

‘I like the sound of that,’ said Arthur, making a note. ‘I’ll tell Howard.’

‘Oh, don’t speak to him!’ said Gwyneth. ‘He twists everything.’

‘I’m wearing him down by becoming his friend,’ said Arthur. ‘He’ll feel bad about writing horrible stories about us sooner or later.’

‘Yes, that’s how journalists work,’ said Gwyneth.

‘Okay, so we’ll have the pictures – do you think … Hmm. I wonder.’

‘What?’

‘Do you think we should take the jesters? They could juggle and make music just as … you know, entertainment for the judges. It’ll make us stand out.’

‘As rank amateurs,’ said Gwyneth. ‘Why not just get Sven to sing his bacon song? It’s gimmicky.’

‘Yes, but it’ll give a flavour of what we’re trying to achieve.’

‘Yeah. Um, Arthur, this isn’t
Pop Idol
.’

‘So, you all think we should just go in and be totally boring and give them a boring presentation?’ Arthur’s feelings were hurt.

‘But you don’t want them to think we’re frivolous, do you …’ offered Cathy tentatively. She was knitting a reindeer jumper.

‘Cathy’s right,’ said Gwyneth. ‘We need to go in suited and booted. Dressed to the nines. No smiling. We’ve got to show them we mean business, that we’re not just a bunch of wastrels who like music and can’t keep their mugs out of the papers. That’s my official consultancy position.’

‘They’ll never fall for it,’ said Arthur. ‘You really think they’ll be convinced by Sven in a suit?’

‘Yeah,’ said Sven. ‘Plus, a tie constricts my singing voice.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Gwyneth. ‘And no dogs.’

Sandwiches’s nose had just become visible behind the door. It suddenly disappeared

‘So we’re trying to pretend we’re people we’re not,’ said Arthur, before Sven could object.

‘That’s called working in an office.’ Gwyneth was clipped. ‘It’s called being in a job.’

They stared at each other.

Can’t she see I worship her? thought Arthur.

Why is he such a WIMP? thought Gwyneth.

‘That’s crap,’ said Arthur intelligently.

‘No, it’s not!’ said Gwyneth. ‘If everyone behaved how they wanted to in an office … well, we’d all be Sven …’

‘And the problem is?’ said Sven.

‘I just don’t see why we have to jump through even more hoops than we already do,’ grumbled Arthur.

‘Really? I thought you loved hoops,’ said Gwyneth. And they glared at each other, whilst the rest of the room watched them closely.

‘She’s … she drives me crazy,’ said Arthur to Kay, as they sat enjoying a beer after Christmas dinner at their dad’s. ‘She is so
annoying
. She has to be right all the time.’

Kay nodded. He was extremely laid-back compared to his nervy half-brother, and was already showing the benefits of the good life in Australia, in particular a tan and paunch combo and an ability to grumble almost endlessly about how rubbish Britain was.