WHAT ABOUT TRAFFIC IN AND OUT OF THE VILLAGE?” SAID Gavin. “Shouldn’t we be in trouble if we don’t tell the police.” The subcommittee had met for an extra session as the date was suddenly nearly upon them and there were a number of urgent matters to resolve.
“No need,” said Derek. “John, you’ve thought of a solution. Would you like to explain?”
“Simple really,” John Thornbull said. “We have a responsible person each end of the course, in communication by mobile phone, and when there’s two or three cars waiting to get through the village either way, we hold up the next race until they’re through. After all, there’s not a lot of cars using our road since they built the bypass.
“How long on average will it take to run each race?” Gavin asked.
“We need to do a trial run,” John said. “I thought you and me could do that,” he added, smiling at Gavin. “Relive our boyhood and all that.”
“I’m game,” said Gavin. “But it’ll have to be last minute, maybe the night before, when the ramp’s up.”
John nodded. “Good thinking. It’ll be a chance to try out the soap boxes. But it’ll have to be just you and me, otherwise things’ll get out of hand.”
“So that’s you in the Youth Club’s Rebellion, and which entry for you, Gav?” said Tony.
“I’ll ask the pub lot. I’m giving them a hand building it, anyway. So that’s fixed then. Trial run on the Friday night. Who shall we ask for the two responsible men at each end on the day?”
“How about Douglas Meade?” said Hazel. “He’s giving the WI a lot of help, and he’s a big lad. Authoritative, like. Get’s it from his mother,” she added, with a sly look at Derek.
“Fine,” said Derek blandly. “I’ll ask Douglas. Who else?”
“I would like to volunteer,” said Father Rodney. “I don’t mind not being the target for a wet sponge!”
There was a small silence, as a picture formed in their minds of the vicar in his black shirt and dog collar stopping the traffic with one hand, and then waving it on again at the right time, mobile phone glued to his ear.
Douglas cleared his throat. “Excellent,” he said. “Can’t get more authoratatiwhatsit than the vicar. Double authority, eh?”
Father Rodney got the reference and smiled. “I’m sure He’ll be with us on the day,” he said quietly.
“Any other points we’ve missed?” Derek said.
“Yes, there is one question. Is there an age limit on the drivers? Minimum or maximum?” John Thornbull had nearly forgotten Jack Jr.’s ambition to drive Rebellion. It could be important, not just for Jack, but for any other minors or old idiots who thought they could do it.
“If you’re thinking of me,” Tony Dibson said firmly, “I have no intention of driving. It’s taking me all my time to stop Irene entering herself and her wheelchair!”
“Had you got anyone in mind, John?” Derek said, though he had a good idea who it might be.
“Well, yes and no. Young Hickson mentioned it, and then some of the other kids wanted to be in on it. We shall have to give ’em all a go down on the playing field, and see who’s fastest.”
“I votes anyone over fifteen,” said Hazel.
Tony Dibson shook his head. “Why don’t we leave it open to all, provided they can reach the brake? We could have the starter checking them over before they start. I don’t think anybody would be stupid enough to drive without a brake.” Tony knew Jack Jr. was thirteen, desperate to drive, and undoubtedly capable of doing so. “After all,” he added, “I remember lads of all ages having soap boxes, and none of us ever got hurt.”
“Let’s have a vote, then,” said Derek, looking at his watch. “All those in favour of an age limit?”
Only Hazel raised her hand.
“Right, that’s carried. Thanks everybody. Next meeting we’re walking the course first, then coming in for business. I shall have a list of points for us to check, including the other entertainments. All going well there, Hazel? Right, I close the meeting for this evening.”
GAVIN WENT ALONG WITH THE OTHERS TO THE PUB, CONFIRMED that he could do the trial run in the pub’s Speedy Willie, and then said he had to go home. “Kate’s got a migraine,” he said, “so I promised to go straight home to be there if Cecilia wakes.”
The others chorused good wishes for Kate’s recovery, and got down to the serious business of ordering.
As Gavin walked back along the High Street, he tried to imagine it on race day. Straw bales would line the road, with a gang of the biggest lads from the Youth Club making sure people didn’t stray off the pavements. Loudspeakers were to be placed along the course, and Derek had agreed to do the commentary. He’d been practising in the bath, and although Lois said he sounded like a man in severe pain, he had assured a doubtful Gavin he could be mistaken for Murray Walker anytime.
Then the soap boxes, careering down the street, hopefully gathering momentum from the sloping length of it. The ramp would give them a good start, and the better they were built, the faster they would go. At least, he thought that was how it would be. Lightest or heaviest? He had no idea, but some of the technical chaps would know. It would be a day to remember, he said to himself as he turned into his lane.
And saw a white van pull away from the pavement next to his cottage, increase speed and disappear round the corner towards the church.
He broke into a run, but couldn’t catch it. He turned into his gate and rushed up the path. The house was in darkness, not even a soft light coming from Cecilia’s room. He opened the front door and panicked. There were toys everywhere, and story books had been ripped from their covers. He rushed upstairs and as he reached the landing he stopped. A small cry from Cecilia. “Christ!” he said aloud. “Thank Christ.” He sank on to his haunches with his head in his hands. Then he stood up slowly and went in to check his small daughter. She had cried in her sleep, and was lying peacefully on her back, thumb firmly in her mouth.
Kate! He went quickly into their bedroom, as quietly as he could. “Gavin? Is that you? Oh my God, thank heavens you’re back.” And then there were loud sobs.
He wrapped her in his big dressing gown and helped her down to the sitting room. “You sit there, and I’ll get us a cup of tea before I tidy up this lot,” he said. “And don’t try to tell me what happened until you’re ready.”
When she had downed the hot, sweet tea, Kate held Gavin’s hand and began. “It was after you’d gone,” she said. “Cecilia was asleep, and I was picking up toys and things before going to bed myself. I was feeling sick, like I usually do with a migraine,” she said, “and when the doorbell went I just ignored it. I could see a white van parked outside and reckoned it was somebody trying to sell something. I could see out of the window the man at the door. He wouldn’t stop ringing the bell. He just kept his finger on it, and I was worried he’d wake Cecilia. So I went and opened it.”
“Was it Froot?” said Gavin hoarsely.
“No, thank God. But it was one of his henchmen. He pushed his way in and made me sit down. Then he said he had a message from Mr. Froot for me. I was to meet him in the Café Jaune in Tresham. On my own. On Saturday. I should make up some story to tell you, and be there prompt at one o’clock. Or else. He said that several times… or else.” She began to cry again, and Gavin hugged her tight.
“What happened to the toys and books?” he said, when she calmed down.
“I said he could tell Tim Froot to go to hell, and he started picking them up, one after another, breaking the legs off the dolls and tearing up the books. I couldn’t bear it, Gavin. All Cecilia’s precious dolls! So I said if he’d stop I’d make sure I would be there on Saturday. Then he went. Next time, he said as he was leaving, it wouldn’t be just the doll’s legs that would get broken. As soon as he’d gone out of the door, I put off all the lights and hid under the bedclothes. And then straightaway you were home. Thank goodness, Cecilia slept through the whole thing. Oh, Gavin,” she said, weeping again. “What are we going to do?”
“What was he like, this villain?”
“Tall, thin, in his thirties or forties. Shaky hands. Funny look in his eyes. That’s about it.”
“Don’t worry, Katie,” Gavin said, quietly. “I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it for good.”