Ann Purser - Threats At Three

They walked slowly back past the village hall, and on towards the High Street, leaving Tony and Irene to go back home. Gavin lifted a protesting Cecilia from Irene’s lap, and turned into his house next door, emerging again to attend the meeting.

Straw bales were being set out to form a crash barrier down both sides of the street, and a bunch of young boys scratched about in them like chickens, until shooed away by Sam Stratford on his tractor. Outside the shop, Josie and Lois stood talking to Paula Hickson, Frankie and the twins.

“Where’s Jack Jr.?” Gran said, walking up to join them.

“Down with the Youth Club lot,” Paula said. “He’s been there all hours after work at the farm for most of this week. Thank God for the soap box grand prix, I say. They’re going to let him drive, and he’s finally cheered up. My only trouble with him now is persuading him to come back home to eat occasionally. Mind you,” she added hastily, “I know where he is this time, of course. And next week he’s back at school. I’m crossing fingers and toes that he’ll settle in again.”

“Oh, look, here comes Mrs. T-J with her son. He’s opening the whole shebang, isn’t he?” Josie said.

“Not exactly. He’s escorting the soap box queen. Hey, look what she’s got him doing! He has to earn his moment of celebrity.” Lois pointed down towards the church, where a forklift truck hoisted Mrs. T-J’s son high to fix rows of bunting, crisscrossing the street, while she directed operations from the ground.

“The old girl’s a wonder,” Derek said, as he joined them. “She’s really come up trumps. Wouldn’t it be good if she won her race?”

“She will,” said Gran, tight-lipped. “Never been known to be beaten at anything, that one.”

“Ah, but don’t forget the surprise entry in the women’s race,” Derek said, glancing at Lois. She put her finger to her lips.

“Surprise entry?” said Gran innocently.

“All will be revealed tomorrow,” Lois said. “Well, I must be getting home. Lots to do before the morning. See you all first thing.”

In the back room of the pub, the soap box committee met for the last time before the great event, and there was an air of apprehension and excitement mixed with the smell of stale beer. “Are we all here?” Derek said, looking round.

“All except John,” Gavin said. “He’s coming as soon as they’ve roped off the ramp so the kids can’t play on it. He’s thought of everything, our John.” And I devoutly hope that I have, too, he added to himself. However hard he tried, he could not banish thoughts of Tim Froot and his designs on Kate. Supposing he showed up tomorrow, while Kate and Cecilia were unprotected? But he’d thought of that. He’d asked Irene if she would like Kate to be with her all day, allowing Tony to be off with the blokes around the course. It would be all hands to the plough tomorrow. Cecilia could toddle beside the chair and Kate could push. She could still stop every now and then to do some filming. That would fix any attempts Froot might make to corner her into threatening conversation.

Dry throats were taken care of by the landlord, and the meeting commenced. “We won’t have the formality tonight, Hazel,” Derek said. “Each one of us can bring up any last minute concerns, and then we’ll get back to our jobs around the village.”

“I’ll make notes, anyway,” said Hazel. “Might be important. You never know, do you?”

DOWN BY THE CANAL, DEEP INSIDE THE CRUMBLING WAREHOUSE, a huddle of sad characters grouped around Ross. He’d questioned them one by one to see if any knew the whereabouts of Jack Hickson, but most were too befuddled with sour beer and meth to be of any use. He made a bed for himself out of old car seats dumped in a corner, and stretched out. He’d wait until the best one of them was sober, and then by offering him something to put him back into nirvana, he would tease out any information there might have been going the rounds regarding Hickson.

He had picked up the evening paper, and opened it to the news page. A large photograph of a scarlet soap box occupied a quarter of the page, and the accompanying story advertised the grand prix taking place tomorrow in Long Farnden, first race at one o’clock. Right! Ross stood up and waved the paper in the air. “He’ll be there, for sure!” he said to an unresponsive audience. “His whole family out on the street, and the kid probably involved in the racing. How can he keep away?”

JACK HICKSON HAD SEEN THE SAME STORY IN THE PAPER, HIGH UP in his eyrie above the street and out of sight of the shoppers in town. He had been out among the crowds earlier, this time shielded by an old panama straw hat he found dumped in a bin in the park. Pulled down over his eyes, he had slouched along in a raincoat that came down to his shoes, and was grateful that he had a day free of the hot, prickly beard. He was now adept at changing his identity in small ways, and was confident that sooner or later he would find Ross. And when he did, he had planned down to the last detail what he would do.

But now, tomorrow was the soap box grand prix in Farnden, and his family would be certain to be out with the visitors on the streets. By now he was expert at slipping between groups of people, becoming invisible when cops or sniffing dogs loomed. He would go and observe. At least he could take a look at little Frankie and the twins, and above all at his firstborn, Jack, who was certain to be there amongst the vehicles. He remembered taking him to a race meeting at Silverstone, and even though he was only six, he had been fascinated by the cars and the noise and the smell of high octane fuel.

And, of course, Paula would be there.

FATHER RODNEY WAS ON HIS KNEES IN THE CHURCH, PRAYING for fine weather and a successful day. It was cool and quiet, and the powerful scent of flower arrangements set in place for the visitors filled his head and gave him a strange otherworldly sensation. Perhaps this was what heaven would be like? He pulled his thoughts back to the matter in hand. “Above all,” he prayed aloud, “keep us all safe on this important day. Amen.”

“Hear, hear, vicar,” said a voice from the back of the church. It was Mrs. T-J, and she walked briskly down the aisle towards him. “Just thought I’d pop in for a quick word with the Almighty,” she said.

“Not for help in the ladies race, I hope,” joked Father Rodney. “Fair play for all must be our watchword.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mrs. T-J. “I shall win without divine help No, my prayers would echo yours, more or less.” She knelt down in the front pew, and bowed her head. All was silent for a few minutes, and Father Rodney did not quite know what to do. Obviously Mrs. T-J had a hotline, and did not need his assistance. When she stood up, he smiled and said he would no doubt see her around the village. He wished her luck in her race, and she nodded confidently. “Make sure you’re watching,” she said. “It will be something to remember when Jam & Jerusalem crosses the line.”

ALTHOUGH THE DEW WAS STILL ON THE GRASS IN LOIS’S FRONT garden, there were plenty of people walking to and fro past her gate. Most of them waved cheerily and commented on the sunny morning. “Hope it lasts!” Lois shouted back a dozen times. She picked a bunch of flowers to put in a vase, which, as Gran said, would sweeten the ladies’ toilets at the back of the village hall.

Derek had been up at dawn, and Lois had not set eyes on him since. He had said he would see her this evening, if not before, but they could keep in touch on their mobiles. She had agreed with Gran that one of them would take a flask of coffee and a sandwich and force him to down them, wherever he was and however busy. “He’ll want to be in good shape for the dance this evening,” Gran said, as Lois stuffed the flowers in a glass vase. “And here, let me do that. I don’t know where I went wrong, Lois Meade, but you can’t knit or sew, nor arrange flowers. I don’t know what your grandmother would say.”