Bed of Roses

‘Go home and put something decent on. You look worse than a prostitute.’

Fanny’s not easily bullied; not any more. Not ever again. She flushes, first in shock, and then anger, but she does not go home and put something decent on. She fixes her eyes on Mrs Guppy and slowly, deliberately, she undoes three more buttons, until her shirt is hanging open all the way to the navel.

‘And now, Mrs Guppy, what do I look like?’ she says. ‘What do I look like now?’ She turns away, without waiting for a reply.

9 (#ulink_4bfc190c-65dc-5891-b870-b4208ef89b40)

Mrs Hooper from the post office, oblivious to everything but her own pleasure that night, bustles up to the limbo dancer from Exeter to suggest that it is time he began. She switches off the music, taps the microphone with impressive precision, as if she’s been tapping microphones all her life: ‘Testing…Testing…One two three,’ she says. And then, very suddenly, with a great uplift of volume: ‘Hello, girls and boys, ladies and gents! Welcome all and welcome sundry! CAN YOU ALL HEAR ME?’

‘They can hear you in bloody Exeter,’ shouts back Grey McShane. Fanny tries to smile. She has crossed the room and sidled up to Jo Maxwell McDonald, who was just introducing her to Grey’s beautiful – pregnant – wife, Messy. Her shirt still hangs absurdly open and she longs to do it up but she won’t as long as she knows Mrs Guppy’s eyes are on her, and they are. They still are. Burning into her back. She can feel them.

‘I said CAN YOU HEAR ME!?!’ Mrs Hooper bawls.

‘Hey!’ Messy McShane leans over to Fanny, ‘Do you realise your shirt’s undone?’

‘I know.’ Fanny tries again to smile but finds, to her horror, that her bottom lip is quivering.

‘RIGHT THEN. I’M MARGE HOOPER, AS MOST OF YOU PROBABLY KNOW.’ Mrs Hooper’s voice is making the windows rattle. ‘So welcome everyone and thanks ever so much for coming. We’ve got an action-packed evening ahead, and it’s all in a good cause, so—’

‘Switch off the microphone, would you?’ calls out Grey. ‘We’ll have animals aborting all over the fuckin’ county.’

There are grumbles of assent. Grey has been living in Fiddleford for several years – first at the Manor with the Maxwell McDonalds, then at the Gatehouse Restaurant – and though his relationship with the villagers certainly opened badly, with a violent brawl at the Fiddleford Arms, nowadays he is almost a popular figure. He’s a good employer, and though his rudeness is legendary he’s usually only saying what most people wish they dared to say. And he is often surprisingly kind.

On this occasion, however, Mrs Hooper chooses to ignore him. She’s been waiting many years to have a turn at the microphone, and not even Grey McShane is going to make her switch it off. ‘…So I hope you’ve all got your dancing feet on! Yes, you too, Albert! No excuses! It’s have-a-go Friday in Fiddleford this evening. Doesn’t matter how old you are, you’re never too old to learn!…So. Well! I suppose it’s time for me to introduce you to our fabulous expert coach, Mr Timothy Nesbit, who’s come all the way from Exeter…’

‘Hey, Fanny!’ giggles Jo suddenly. ‘Look down! Your shirt’s completely undone!’

‘So Timothy, if you’re ready, it’s over to you—Oooh!’ she pulls the microphone back from him just in time, ‘and I’ll be going round with raffle tickets in a minute. We’ve got some fabulous prizes…Mr McShane’s donated a dinner for two at the Gatehouse Restaurant, and for those of you with nice, big freezers, the Maxwell McDonalds have donated half a bullock!…We’ve got a month’s supply of young Colin and Chloe’s bantam eggs; and Mrs McShane’s offered a giant hamper of her award-winning veggies, so there are loads of super prizes…A bottle of wine, a great big box of chocs from Mr Cooke; a super Ladyshaver from Pru. Absolutely unused, isn’t it, Pru? Unwanted Christmas present, I believe you said.’

Grey McShane, sitting at the back of the hall with his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms crossed, starts snoring ostentatiously.

‘…Tickets are 20p each, or five for £1. Which is the same price, of course…’ Grey snores louder, and everyone begins to laugh. ‘But it makes it a nice round number, doesn’t it?’ Mrs Hooper shouts over them. ‘So – get your wallets out, ladies and gentlemen. Right then! Timothy? Are we ready? Let’s take it away!’

People mill about waiting for Timothy to finish his limbering up. They are mumbling quietly to each other, eyeing him distrustfully, dreading the moment when he insists they join in. Jo turns once again to Fanny, this time with a hint of impatience. ‘Fanny you do realise, don’t you? Your shirt—’

‘Of course I realise,’ says Fanny.

‘Well then, why—’

‘You’ll have to forgive us country bumpkins, Fanny,’ Messy interrupts tactfully. ‘We’ve been rotting away down here so long, haven’t we, Jo? We’re probably too damn dozy to realise it’s the absolute height of chic.’

‘No, we bloody well aren’t,’ snaps Jo. Who certainly isn’t. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Messy. It’s not chic. Her buttons have come undone.’

‘They are undone, Jo. They haven’t necessarily come undone. Anyway,’ Messy adds unconvincingly, ‘it looks great.’

Fanny takes a deep drag on her cigarette and then exhales, puffing smoke out of the side of her mouth, before leaning closer to the two women. ‘Tell me,’ she whispers fretfully, ‘only be subtle. Is Mrs Guppy looking at me?’

They glance over Fanny’s shoulder to the corner where Mr and Mrs Guppy had been standing.

‘Mrs—? Oh. Oh, dear,’ says Messy with a nervous laugh. ‘…Oh, dear…’

‘Christ! Don’t say “Oh, dear”! “Oh, dear” what? What’s going on?’ She searches their faces, frantic for clues.

‘Oh, crikey—’ Jo’s eyes widen in alarm. ‘What have you done to her, Fanny? She’s on her way over, and she doesn’t look too…Bloody hell. Hey! Mrs—HEY!’

Fanny gasps as an icy blow hits her between the shoulders. She feels the shock working its way down her spine and she has no idea – she wonders if she’s been stabbed. She spins round.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ says Mrs Guppy, yellow teeth glinting. ‘I was only bringing Teacher a nice cup of cola…You shall have to go home an’ change, now. Shan’t you, my lovely?’

Fanny looks up at her. They all do; Messy, Jo, various people nearby have noticed Mrs Guppy move in, and she doesn’t move often. A space has somehow cleared around them, and now a silence, which is quickly spreading across the room.

Fanny smiles. ‘Not to worry, Mrs Guppy,’ she says lightly. ‘It’s a warm evening. And we’re all friends here.’ She drops her cigarette into the pool of Coca-Cola at her feet, undoes the final two buttons of her soaking shirt, and peels it off. The limbo enthusiasts of Fiddleford pause in amazement at their new head teacher, who stands before them all in her uplift plunge-cut black lace magnificence, Marlboro Light packs bulging from her low-slung pockets, an open bottle of vodka in her hand. She’s stuck there. She’s dying out there. Time stands still…

The silence is broken at last by a wolf-whistle, long and low. Everyone turns towards it. Standing framed at the entrance is a tall, lean, suntanned man in his mid-thirties, with shoulder-length sun-streaked hair, his hands in jeans pockets, his mouth wearing a languid, admiring smile. He has a cigarette hanging from a corner of his lips. He is almost, but not quite, laughing.

‘You’re kinda naked,’ he comments amiably, in his soft Louisiana drawl.

Fanny gives a short, strangulated laugh. ‘LOUIS!’ she chokes. ‘Thank God! Thank God for you!’ She runs through the space and throws herself into his arms. A series of flashes follow as the man from the Western Weekly Gazette springs from the melee to snatch pictures of the west of England’s youngest head teacher introducing herself to the villagers. Louis glances up at the photographer, and then at the gawking crowd. He takes off his old suede jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ he murmurs, ‘let’s get outta here.’

The Fiddleford Arms is deserted, except for the bar woman, because everyone’s up at the village hall. Louis and Fanny – carrying the coke-drenched shirt and still in Louis’s jacket – drink a lot, very quickly, and before very long Fanny finds she has forgotten about the dreaded Mrs Guppy and is instead telling Louis in neurotic detail about the telephone call which came through when she was in her office with Robert White.

‘I actually dropped the telephone. It seems so stupid, but Louis, I recognised his voice,’ she says, puffing away on her cigarette, slugging back the whisky mac. ‘I knew it was him. I knew it was. He sounded so damn familiar…I hung up on him.’

‘Has he called back?’

She hesitates. ‘Not yet, no.’

‘It probably wasn’t him, Fan. It would be a pretty damn weird coincidence. But this kind of crap is going to go on and on – in your head at least – until you deal with it. I keep telling you. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the police. Talk to someone.’

But she won’t do that. She’ll never agree to do that. She always says the same thing: she doesn’t want to stir things up again.

‘Until you find out where the sucker is, if he’s still alive, for Christ’s sake—’

‘Of course he’s still alive. Why shouldn’t he be?’

‘Whatever. Fine. But if you believe it was him on the phone—’

‘But what if it wasn’t?’

He stifles a sigh. He’s said it all so often before; virtually every time they meet. ‘Fanny, it probably wasn’t. Either way. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the goddam police.’

‘No.’

‘You could clear this whole thing up.’ He snaps a finger. ‘Gone. Like that.’

‘No.’

‘Well – I don’t know what else to say, Fan. Anyhow, I guess this publicity idea isn’t helping. I mean, if he is out there, which he isn’t, then broadcasting your fabulous successes over the airwaves could probably be rated as “stirring things up”. Don’t you think?’