THE ENTIRE VILLAGE WAS NOW TAKEN OVER BY TOMORROW’S soap box grand prix. There had been last minute objections from the police on safety grounds, but somehow Mrs. T-J had managed to smooth things over.
“She ain’t goin’ to be cheated out of the ride of her life in Jam & Jerusalem!” Tony said to Irene, as he pushed her up the street at teatime to have a look at the impressive ramp erected by John Thornbull and helpers. A crowd stood around as bolts were tightened and trial runs made sure that the edifice was safe. A streamlined vehicle, shaped like a rocket and labelled Silver Streak II, was repeatedly pushed up the ramp backwards and then released to check that all was well.
“You’ll wear it out, boy!” Tony said to its driver.
“Don’t you worry, Tony Dibson, we’ve got Silver Streak II ready for tomorrow!”
Tony and Irene wandered on, turning down to the playing fields and home. As they reached their cottage gate, and Tony turned the wheelchair, Irene said, “Aren’t we going round the field? It’ll be a good opportunity before the crowds get here tomorrow.”
“It’ll be a bumpy ride for you,” Tony said.
“Never mind about that! You’ll want to see everything.” Irene smiled. “I reckon my ride down the field will be nothing compared with them soap boxes. They’ll career down the High Street and try to avoid all the potholes the council hasn’t mended.”
The big marquee had been erected a couple of days previously, and now all the craft and sundry stalls were set out. There were few exhibits, most stallholders having decided it was risky to leave them overnight, and planned to turn up early tomorrow morning. The first race was at one o’clock, and the organisers had reckoned that most of the business on the field would be done during the morning.
Gavin Adstone was watching a couple of men setting up the bucking bronco, and his small daughter, sitting on his shoulders, chortled and pointed at the horse, shouting “Me! Me go on horse!”
“Hi, Irene! Listen to this silly child! As if we’d let her anywhere near a bucking bronco!”
“There will be Shetland pony rides for the little ones tomorrow,” Irene said, blowing a kiss to Cecilia. “Is Kate taking photos? I’m sure there’ll be some for the album.”
“Time for the meeting soon,” Tony said. “Are you coming back our way, Gavin?”
Gavin looked at his watch. “Good heavens, is that the time? Yep, we’ll come back with you. Here, Cecilia can sit on Irene’s lap, and I’ll push the chair. It’s hard going in the field. The meeting’s in the pub, isn’t it? Derek said half an hour at the most. All of us have jobs to do around the village, so it’ll just be for emergency matters.”
“Of which I hope there’ll be none!” John Thornbull said, coming up behind them.
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.