The Shooting in the Shop Page 5

  Carole’s mind went back to the moment in Gallimaufry when Jude had issued the invitation to her open house. Lola had suggested that Ricky’s mum might look after the children while she and Ricky came to Woodside Cottage. In the event, it appeared that Lola herself had been left holding the babies. And somehow Carole couldn’t imagine her using the expression ‘Ricky’s mum’ in Flora Le Bonnier’s rather daunting presence.

  ‘Oh, come on, Grandma,’ said Polly, ‘give the place a chance. It’s hardly been open three months. Lola’s worked bloody hard on it and we should all give her as much support as we can.’

  Carole was surprised to hear this expression of solidarity. According to hallowed fairytale stereotypes, Polly should resent her stepmother, but that appeared not to be the case. Maybe the two young women were near enough in age to bond as girlfriends.

  Ricky Le Bonnier evidently considered that he had been silent too long. ‘I think, next to putting your own money into a musical or opening a restaurant, going into the retail business must be one of the riskiest investments out there. But as you say, Polly, if anyone can make a go of it, Lola can.’

  This prompted a barely disguised snort from Flora, as her son continued, ‘Mind you, it can work for the lucky few. I knew Gordon and Anita Roddick when they started up Body Shop – not far away from here, the first store was in Brighton – and, God, I wish I’d got in on the ground floor of that. Some of their franchisees have just minted it over the years.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Ricky, because you’ve done very well yourself. You’ve made your money through the music business,’ said his mother, as though this was an article of faith.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m not complaining. Mind you, the people who really clean up there – apart from the artistes, of course – always end up being the middlemen, the lawyers, the accountants. At the more creative end of the spectrum, the producers and so on are usually the ones who miss out. Very few creatives are also good businessmen.’

  He favoured Carole with a big, confidential smile. He had that ability, shared by many professional charmers, of being able to make the person they’re looking at feel for that moment that there’s no one else in the room. ‘My background’s as a record producer. Worked with a lot of big names in the past . . . Led Zeppelin, Procol Harum, Jethro Tull. My name was never in the foreground, but, to give them their due, a lot of the artistes always make a point of recognizing my contribution . . . you know, when they’re interviewed, that kind of stuff.’

  Still rather sensitive about her own retired status, Carole asked, ‘And are you still working?’

  He chuckled and made a broad gesture to his womenfolk, whose message seemed to be, ‘Isn’t it amazing that people still have to ask questions like that about Ricky Le Bonnier?’ ‘Carole,’ he said gently, ‘I’m the kind of guy who’s never not working. I’m always switched on. I don’t do downtime. So, yes, in answer to your question, I am still working.’

  ‘Still in the music business?’

  ‘You betcha. They say it’s all changed, and certainly it isn’t the same world I grew up in. God, we knew how to enjoy our work in those days. We knew how to lunch. We knew how to have a proper all-nighter in the studio with a few bottles and, er, other stimulants, to aid the creative process. Today’s Perrier-sipping wimps in the music industry couldn’t keep up with the pace we used to live at. But, hell, it worked! The stuff that came out of those studio sessions was pure gold. Now the accountants have moved in – as they have in most of the creative industries – but they still have to turn to me for help when they get stuck. Oh, yes, the skills of Ricky Le Bonnier remain very much in demand.’

  ‘So when did you last actually produce a record?’ asked Polly coolly.

  For the first time Ricky looked slightly thrown by the question. His daughter, it seemed, had the ability to get under his skin. For the first time Carole was aware of considerable tension between them.

  ‘It’s not actually to produce the record, Polly love, that they look to me for these days. I work more in an advisory capacity. I allow them to pick my brains when they need a bit of expertise – not to mention experience.’

  ‘And do they pay you for your “expertise – not to mention experience”?’ There was no doubt now that Polly Le Bonnier was deliberately needling her father.

  He looked down at his mother with the same expression he’d used when Carole had asked whether he was still working. He sighed and addressed his daughter. ‘Look, love, you should know by now that your daddy just attracts money. He doesn’t have to go out of his way to find it. He works hard for it, certainly, but your daddy is a money magnet.’

  ‘And a babe magnet?’ There wasn’t much affection in Polly’s tone.

  Her father looked down to Flora in her armchair and shrugged helplessly. She smiled up at him lovingly as he said, ‘Guilty as charged.’

  Polly’s snort was very similar to the one recently emitted by her grandmother. Then the girl looked at her watch. ‘Can we get back soon? You know I’ve got to catch the seven-thirty-two train back to London this evening and I haven’t seen much of the little ones.’

  Ricky’s hands rose in a placatory gesture. ‘Just a few more people I want to see. I haven’t spoken to the lovely Jude properly yet.’ And he drifted off. Flora was also lifting herself out of her armchair with the help of her sticks, saying she needed ‘the little girls’ room’. Carole noticed how little movement she had in her clawlike hands; she couldn’t grip the sticks, only push them into the right position to support herself.

  Left alone with Polly, she asked, ‘When you mentioned “the little ones” . . . ?’

  ‘Lola’s two. Mabel and Henry.’

  ‘Your stepsister and stepbrother?’

  ‘Yes, though it’s more like I’m their aunt, really, given the age difference.’ Polly seemed noticeably to have relaxed now her father was not beside her. ‘But I don’t get a chance to see much of them . . .’ she looked again with irritation at her watch ‘. . . and, quite honestly, I’d rather be with Mabel and Henry at this moment than at a drinks party full of people I don’t know.’ Realizing how ungracious this must have sounded, she was quick to apologize.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Carole. ‘I’m not much of a one for parties myself. It’s just that I live next door, so I know Jude and . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘Bit of a life force, isn’t she?’

  Carole had never put it into words before, but of course, yes, that was exactly what Jude was; a ‘bit of a life force’. With inevitable and dispiriting logic, Carole wondered what, by comparison, that made her. She didn’t pursue the thought.

  ‘So you’re not spending Christmas down here, Polly?’

  ‘No, I’ll be at my boyfriend’s parents’. They live in Gloucestershire.’

  ‘Oh. Very beautiful county,’ said Carole with all the fatuity of small talk. ‘Or, at least, bits of it are.’

  ‘The bit where they live certainly is. Near the Slad Valley. Laurie Lee country. No, we’ll have a few days down there, living in the lap of luxury, miles away from the real world, and then we’ll have to come back to the harsh reality of making a living.’

  ‘And how do you do that? I mean, what do you do?’

  Polly Le Bonnier wrinkled up her prominent nose. ‘I’m an actor.’

  ‘Like your grandmother.’

  ‘Yes. Or rather, not like my grandmother. Anyway, she isn’t really my grandmother.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not Ricky’s real daughter. I’m his stepdaughter. He married my mother.’

  ‘Ah, and is she still—?’

  But Polly clearly didn’t want to talk about her mother. She moved brusquely on. ‘No, I’m not like my grandmother. She was successful. I may have a famous name – which arguably isn’t mine by right, anyway – but I’m only an actor when somebody will employ me. The rest of the time I’m an occasional barmaid or waitress.’ She sounded rueful rather than dispirited about her si
tuation.

  ‘Ah. Well, maybe things’ll pick up for you next year.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Polly didn’t sound like she’d put a very large bet on the possibility.

  ‘And your boyfriend . . . Is he also . . . ?’ Rather proudly Carole remembered a phrase Gaby had used when speaking of the clients at the theatrical agency where she used to work. ‘Is he also “in the business”?’

  ‘Yes. To some extent. But Piers is a comedy writer too, so he’s not so dependent on the acting as I am. Mind you, that may change.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Polly opened her hands in a gesture of self-deprecation. ‘Just that I’m having a go at writing something.’

  ‘A comedy script?’

  ‘No, no, it’s more . . .’ She seemed embarrassed to be talking about her writing. ‘It’s a book, I suppose. Well, it is a book, yes.’

  ‘Have you finished it?’

  ‘A couple of times.’ Carole looked at her curiously, so the girl explained, ‘I mean I’ve got to the end a couple of times. I’ve finished two drafts.’

  ‘Have you shown it to anyone?’

  ‘To Piers. He says he thinks it’s terrific. But then he would say that, wouldn’t he? Mind you, unwilling as ever to give me unqualified praise, he says he doesn’t think it’d have much chance of getting published. But I’ve also shown the manuscript to a friend who works in a literary agency. She was quite flattering about it, though I’m not sure . . . Oh, I’ll finish another draft – which I nearly have done – then see what happens. And in the meantime keep looking for acting work.’

  ‘Well, I wish you a lot of luck with the book.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is it fact or fiction?’

  Polly responded with a wry smile. ‘Bit of each, perhaps.’

  ‘Ah. Contemporary setting?’

  ‘No, I suppose I’d have to say it’s historical. About the past, anyway, and about how people reinvent their pasts. Most of us do that to some extent.’

  ‘Do we?’ Carole thought about whether she’d ever done it, and decided that yes, she had. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I don’t have to look far for people who’ve reinvented their past,’ said Polly.

  ‘Are you talking about your father?’

  ‘Him, and others.’ She gave a sardonic grin. ‘Anyway, I’m getting quite intrigued by history, you know. Digging back into the mix of truth and fantasy, finding out where things went wrong.’

  ‘Went wrong for you, do you mean?’

  ‘Good heavens no.’ The girl laughed at the idea, then wryness returned to her voice as she went on, ‘I know where things went wrong for me.’

  She didn’t let the thought linger or leave time for a supplementary question. ‘So maybe the book will make my fortune, change my life around. Huh, I should be so lucky. Anyway, for the time being, Piers is the only writer in our household. He’s starting to do quite well,’ the girl said wistfully. ‘He’s had a few credits on television sketch shows. You may have seen the name Piers Duncton scrolling down at the end. And now a television sitcom of his looks like it might get commissioned. You know, he’s got very good contacts. He was in the Footlights at Cambridge, and that kind of network counts for a lot in show business.’

  Carole made a possible connection. ‘So when he was at Cambridge, did he know Lola?’

  Polly nodded. ‘Yes, they were in revues and things together. Did the Edinburgh Fringe, all that stuff.’

  ‘Did you meet Piers through her?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Other way round. I’d met Piers before he went to Cambridge. In the National Youth Theatre. And somehow our relationship survived the three years he was up there.’ She made it sound as if the process hadn’t all been plain sailing. ‘So I met all his Footlights mates, including Lola.’

  ‘And was it through you that your father – or, rather, your stepfather – met Lola? You introduced them?’

  Polly twisted her lips into an expression of mock ruefulness as she echoed her father’s words of a few moments before. ‘Guilty as charged.’

  Chapter Eight

  Carole was surprised how long she stayed at Jude’s open house. She was so busy nibbling Zosia’s exquisite nibbles, drinking more white wine and, to her amazement, chatting away easily to people (some of whom she even hadn’t met before), that she didn’t notice the passage of time. Only at the end of a long conversation with a retired geophysicist about the semantic history of the word ‘serendipity’ did she finally take a look at her watch. She was astonished to see that it was nearly five o’clock. The booze showed no signs of running out, and the crowd of guests hadn’t dwindled by much, but Carole thought it was probably time she left.

  Her circuit of goodbyes took a gratifyingly long time and it was nearly six by the time she was sitting by the Aga in the High Tor kitchen. Gulliver looked up at her pathetically, hoping for an after-dark walk, but Carole was feeling selfish. She’d do the Sunday Times crossword first, and then take him out just on the rough ground behind the house to do his business. The dog couldn’t really complain; he’d had an hour’s thorough workout that morning on Fethering Beach.

  Though The Times crossword was an essential part of Carole Seddon’s daily routine, she very rarely did the Sunday Times version, and its quirks were unfamiliar to her. She found her mind kept sliding away from the clues and her vision kept wandering abstractedly into the middle distance. It took quite a while for her to conclude that she was a little drunk.

  But this realization did not generate the guilt which would usually accompany it. Instead, Carole felt rather mellow. In spite of her misgivings, she had really enjoyed the open house. She hadn’t had to explain herself, she hadn’t had to apologize, she had just chatted away to people. Not like Carole Seddon at all. Just like a normal person, in fact.

  The mellow feeling stayed with her for the rest of the evening. She took Gulliver out for his necessary visit, and ignored the reproachful plea in his dark Labrador eyes for a longer walk. She had eaten so many nibbles that she only required a single slice of cheese on toast for supper. Then she watched some mindless medical drama on television (not feeling her customary guilt for watching something mindless) and caught up with the news headlines. She was in bed by half past ten.

  Waking at about three with a raging thirst, Carole Seddon felt rather less mellow and started worrying again about Stephen and his family’s forthcoming Christmas visit. She was awake for over an hour.

  As she lay there, willing sleep to return, she became aware of a light visible through her curtains. A strange, almost pinkish glow. Carole wondered if it presaged snow, and went back to sleep, dreaming of a White Christmas.

  But the strange glow she had seen had another cause. The next morning Carole Seddon heard that there had been a fire on Fethering High Street Parade. Gallimaufry had burnt down.

  Chapter Nine

  Jude had heard the news in a phone call from one of her clients, and straight away rushed round to High Tor. Carole was miffed at not having been first with the information. Her head still a little fuzzy from the day before, she had taken Gulliver out for his walk before seven that Monday morning, and it was only by bad luck that she had chosen the route to the beach down by the Fethering Yacht Club and the Fether estuary. Nine times out of ten her walk would have taken her past the shops on the High Street, so she would have been able to see the destruction for herself. And also to spread the news.

  As they sat down to coffee at the High Tor kitchen table, it turned out that Jude had little detail, except for the fact that the fire had taken place. ‘There’ll probably be something on the local news at lunchtime,’ she concluded.

  ‘I could check the BBC Southern Counties website,’ said Carole, and scurried off to do so. Jude was amused by the way her neighbour, for so long a technophobe, had suddenly become hooked on computer technology. It was also characteristic of Carole that she kept her laptop permanently on a table in a spare bedroom upstairs,
as if she were unable to acknowledge its portability.

  Jude didn’t bother following, she just sat and enjoyed her coffee. She wasn’t expecting there to be any new information on the BBC website yet, and so it proved. ‘We’ll have to wait for the next bulletin,’ said Carole disconsolately. ‘No other way of finding anything out.’

  ‘We could visit the scene of the incident,’ suggested Jude.

  ‘What, you mean actually go down to the parade and have a look?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, we couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, there’ll be lots of other prurient ghouls down there, you know, like people who slow down to look at car crashes.’

  ‘They’re probably not prurient ghouls. They’re just curious.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re not curious, Carole?’

  ‘Well, I . . . Well, I . . . I suppose it’s only natural to want to know what’s happened locally, particularly when it involves people one knows, or rather people one has met . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there could possibly be something one could do to help.’

  ‘Yes, there could. Come on, Carole, get your coat on.’

  ‘I’ll take my basket, so that it’ll look as if I’ve gone out shopping.’

  ‘If you want to.’

  ‘And if I have Gulliver with me, it’ll look as if I’m taking him for a walk too, rather than just being . . .’

  ‘A prurient ghoul?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They could smell the fire long before they could see anything. In fact, Carole was amazed she hadn’t smelt it during her earlier excursion with Gulliver. Though no smoke was visible, their nostrils were filled with the stench soon after they stepped out of High Tor. Acrid, redolent of the harsh tang of burning plastic.

  As predicted, there was a substantial crowd gathered in front of the High Street Parade. The antennae of Fethering residents had always been finely tuned to catastrophe. But none of the prurient ghouls could get very close to what had once been Gallimaufry. The whole parade had been cordoned off by police tape. There were still two fire engines at the front, and maybe more at the back, the side that faced towards the sea, but the main fury of the flames appeared to have been subdued. A few sparks could be seen in the interior, and some exposed beams still steamed from their recent immersion by the firemen’s hoses.