Torn (27 page)

To Jessica it seemed longer. So much had intervened.

‘Then the next morning you came back again?'

‘I was worried about you!'

‘And you kissed me. You didn't have to. So? I'm confused, Jess. You say one thing … but, I don't know what to make of it, like, I don't know what you mean. Unless it's all meaningless with you?'

What to say to him? What kind of meaning was he looking for, beyond the fact that she found him attractive, even with the bruises? She'd fucked with less meaning than that kiss had had.

‘I can kiss a friend who's been beaten up, can't I?' she said, lamely.

‘Yeah, yeah. I remember. We're friends, right?'

‘Of course.' What more could they be? Better not to get bogged down in this type of conversation. ‘So, you'll ask Owen? About juggling at the party? Then phone me?'

‘OK.'

‘Or better still, introduce me to him.'

‘How? Where?'

‘The Prince Rupert. We can have a drink, you and I.'

‘The Rupert? But you've never wanted to be seen with me anywhere public?'

She shook her head. How dreadful that now seemed – that she'd treated him like a shameful secret.

‘Definitely. That's what we'll do. Meet in the pub Monday evening.'

Kit had stood up. She seemed to have been following the exchange, looking back and forth. Now her tail began to wag slowly.

‘I'm sure I can arrange an hour or two's babysitting with my neighbour Ethel,' Jess continued. ‘Phone me if Owen can't make it, or doesn't want to do the gig. But tell him cash in hand. How about … a hundred quid? Is that enough, do you think?'

When Jessica arrived in the pub she was a few minutes late. Danny was already there, sitting on his own. When she went to the bar for another lager and a glass of wine for herself the barman expressed relief.

‘He's been sitting there nursing that pint and watching the door for over an hour,' he said. Then, almost immediately, Owen turned up and she forgot to ask Danny why he'd arrived at the rendezvous so early.

As they talked Jessica kept Owen topped up with Guinness. His shaved head was stubbled with re-growth, apart from a clump of hair at the nape, which had been allowed to grow long and was plaited. A droopy moustache and goatee beard completed the Fu Manchu image. There were half a dozen rings through each ear, a stud just beneath his lower lip and spikes through his left eyebrow. But he was not quite as obviously grimy as she'd feared, though his clothes could probably have done with a boil-wash and there was a slightly greyish look about his complexion and hands, which she preferred not to contemplate. He had friends, he told her, as if aware of her misgiving – one of whom was a barber apparently – and did get to have a bath once in a while, but preferred to sleep in the open air.

‘I'm a genius,' he explained. ‘An artist. I can't be contained in a box. I have to have the sky and the elements around me.'

Danny nodded seriously, as if this made perfect sense. When Jessica raised the subject of the remuneration, Owen flapped his hands at her.

‘Don't talk about money, I hate the stuff. I'm anti-capitalist, anti-globalist, anti-GM, anti-vivisection, anti-government. Money and government is the enemy of the free spirit. They want to crush me.'

‘You don't want paying for the gig?'

‘Don't talk about it,' he said, flapping his hands again. ‘Don't want to hear!'

‘Have you got your equipment in this bag?' Jess asked. Diverted he enthusiastically unloaded some of the items from the large canvas sack he'd carried slung over his shoulder when he arrived – Indian clubs; fire brands; multi-coloured balls. And underneath these, ‘the costume', rolled up in the bottom.

‘I can juggle anything. I'm a genius. Tell the lady to lend me some plates. I'll give her a fright. I'll spin them, I'll throw them, but I never drop them! Not unless I mean to. I'll give the money back if I so much as chip her china!' So he
was
going to take the money – he just didn't like to talk about it. But the idea of letting this madman loose amongst Gilda's delicate porcelain was unthinkable.

‘I'll arrange something,' Jessica said, recalling the reject china shop in the high street. ‘And in the meantime would you allow me to get your costume professionally cleaned? I'll have it ready for you at the farm and I'm sure you'll be able to wash and brush up there, before you do your act.' She would have to square this with Gilda, but if the woman wanted a clean entertainer then she would have to be accommodating.

‘And this place, it's Danny's boss I'll be performing for? Mr Warwick at Gore Farm?'

‘At his daughter's party. Sasha will be four.'

‘And he's all right is he, Planks?' Owen looked to Danny for confirmation. ‘He's a gentleman?'

Danny nodded.

‘He'll appreciate my artistry.' Owen looked back to Jessica, his eyes alight with the prospect of displaying his talent in front of the gentry. ‘You see, I'm a genius. I can juggle anything!'

‘You're sure he'll come?' Jessica asked Danny, after the juggler had left them.

‘He'd like the cash … and you've got his clothes.' They both glanced at the carrier bag by her feet. ‘Good move. He'll want those back. Don't worry.'

It was comfortable sitting with Danny. From time to time, his friends who'd strolled in while they talked to Owen, and who now included Owen amongst their number, looked across at them. A couple of young women in the group glanced frequently, as if Jess and Danny were being discussed, but to the older, more conservative locals, the spectacle of one of the hippies, even one with a black eye, sitting with a ‘normal' person, was not worth a third glance. Perhaps, with her nose stud and crew-cut hair, she did not look normal enough to be classified as one of their own?

Because Jess was driving she'd had only one glass of wine and was now drinking fruit juice. ‘Wow, this is delicious,' she said, turning the bottle and studying the label.

‘What is it?'

‘Mango and papaya.' She glanced up and noticed his slight frown. ‘You don't approve? Why … the carbon footprint? Perhaps I shouldn't have had the wine either. That wasn't English. Look, there's always been international trade. What about tea, bananas, sugar cane?'

‘It's the amount that's so damaging. Demand just grows and grows. Till recently I'd never even heard of mangos or pap … that other thing. Now people want what they want, when they want it, no matter what time of year or where it comes from.'

‘I'm guilty of that. Asparagus from Peru, prawns from Indonesia.'

‘I don't blame anyone for being tempted. And big business doesn't care so long as they're expanding their markets and increasing their profits. They're just interested in the short-term, the bottom-line, bonuses and dividends. They don't give a flying fuck about fair trade or sustain'bility. Or using up all the fossil fuels and pumping carbon into the atmosphere.' He broke down at the end of this statement into an uncontrollable fit of coughing. He at last emerged from behind his handkerchief.

‘Danny? Why do your friends call you Planks?'

‘Why d'you think? It was Pete started it. Thick as two short …' There was no need to complete the cliché.

‘But you're not. You're intelligent and thoughtful.'

‘Nothing I've studied myself, look. Just stuff I've picked up.'

‘It's still your own interpretation of the world around you. Where do you think most people get their information from? There are few who bother to properly research a subject before giving the rest of us the benefit of their opinions!'

He went to grasp the straight glass but started to cough again and instead knocked it flying, lager splashing over her, over the table and running down onto the floor.

‘Stupid and clumsy,' he managed when he got his breath back, then apologised over and over until she told him to shut up. None of the lager had splashed onto her embroidered jacket, and her dress was a gungy green colour, unlikely to show a stain. The cloth begged from the bar soon dealt with the rest of the spillage. ‘P'raps you'll give me a lift?' he asked, when she said she'd better get home soon, to relieve Ethel.

‘Aren't you going to stay on with your friends … make a night of it?'

He shook his head. ‘Feeling a bit pants, to be honest.'

‘Did you cycle in; I'm not sure I can get your bike in the car.'

‘No. The boss brought me. We went to the police station to make statements about Wednesday night. They're charging Bill Bryant with affray. They wanted me to press charges for GBH, but I'm not.'

‘Why ever not?'

‘What good would it do? Anyway, I know the bloke. I've bought stuff from him … wire, rope, nails. He's told me how bad business is. His shop is one of those old-fashioned places, like, from the old days. It's all dark wood and smells of fire-lighters. Hardly ever anyone in there. And there's a huge fancy cash-till on the counter. Behind it there's all these little drawers, and shelves piled up with boxes. If you catch Bill in the right mood he'll give you advice.'

‘Places like that have to modernise or die. Like James said, it's not a new road which will put him out of business, though it might prove the final straw. OK. Let's go. You need to get home and go to bed.'

They took their glasses back and as they left the pub Danny raised his hand briefly in farewell to the other table.

‘Jess?' He said following her out. ‘Can we do this again?'

His quiet request stopped her and she turned to face him in the pub's forecourt.

‘Danny? You didn't think …? Look, I'm sorry. I've enjoyed this evening, but,' she shook her head. ‘This isn't a date.'

For the next week and a half Jess was too preoccupied even to think much about Danny, let alone attempt to see him. Anyway, she was intent on sticking to her decision. On the morning of the party, though she arrived at the farm directly after delivering Rory to nursery school, there was still no time to do anything but put up decorations, fill bowls with crisps and sweets, take delivery of what seemed like hundreds of pink and silver helium balloons, and boxes and boxes of cakes, tiny sandwiches, pizza faces, chicken goujons, and sausages on sticks. Just as she was beginning to think it was time to collect the children from Cherubs, Gilda dropped her next bombshell.

‘Jessica, my dear, James and I are so very grateful for everything you have done we would like you to have dinner here with us this evening. As you know, James has some friends arriving later …'

Friends plural? The only visitor so far mentioned had been Sasha's godfather.

‘I am doing dinner and we would like you to be our guest … to thank you properly. And of course, with Rory already staying the night, you too would be most welcome to stay.'

‘Well, that's very kind of you, but –'

‘You know Edie was going to stay overnight? But I know she would rather not. She has visitors of her own coming tomorrow. I should let her go home. So, if you're still worried about Rory …?'

Gilda had painted her into a corner, but she really didn't fancy the idea at such short notice.

‘I'll stay over if you'd like me to but I'm going to be very tired.'

‘All the more reason. No need to prepare food for yourself. If you stay you'll be able to relax, have a meal with us and a drink, with no worries about driving home and no worries about Rory.'

‘I've got to collect the children any minute, and –'

‘I'll collect the children and keep them occupied for an hour or two till the party starts. You go home now.'

‘What about Owen? He should be arriving soon … and he'll need to change and have a wash?'

‘Already organised, Jessica. Stop worrying. I have hung his costume in the utility shower room. There's soap and fresh towels, even a hairdryer in there. You have done enough. Go home. Collect something pretty to wear and your night things.'

Chapter Seventeen

Owen had indeed turned up while Jessica was away. By the time she arrived back at Gore Farm he was already attired in his full regalia – his jester hat on the table beside him – and was sitting drinking tea in the kitchen with Gilda, Mrs Dowdeswell and her teenage daughter, Kirsty, who'd been engaged for the afternoon to help out. Though the costume had seen better days, the velvet coat, quartered in blue, yellow, green, and red, the satin shirt, and sequinned waistcoat had all benefited from cleaning. He looked suitably extraordinary and had scrubbed up well. Best of all he had charmed the three women, regaling them with tales of his Irish roots. As his accent was pure Essex and his name Welsh, Jessica assumed this to be part and parcel of a romanticised mythology he'd constructed about himself. When he added he was the product of the union between a wizard and a fairy she was sure of it.

A scarlet-faced Sasha flew into the kitchen, unable to contain the excitement which fizzed like electricity around her. She screamed, ‘They're here! They're here!' The door-knocker clacked. The first guest had arrived.

The party passed in a dazzle of noise, squashed food, screams, giggles, tears, and tantrums. Jess had brought her iPod onto which she'd downloaded a soundtrack of Disney songs. Squawks of delight, and wails of ‘It's not fair', punctuated pass the parcel, musical chairs, sleeping lions, and blind man's buff.

Through it all Owen wandered, performing some of the most impressive juggling Jess had ever seen at close hand; and juggling interspersed with magic tricks at that. He discovered strings of coloured silk squares or bunches of paper flowers from everyone's pockets. Ping-Pong balls popped from his mouth. Coins continually appeared and disappeared into and out of the ears of the round-eyed children. While they ate he paraded up and down the long dining room, spinning the plates from the reject china shop on a rod balanced first on his chin and then on his forehead as he juggled the coloured balls. But when he wanted to juggle flaming brands he was banished to the courtyard.