“Raina,” he echoed. “Raina Pomona. Now that’s really nice. OK, it’s unusual, but it’s not naff, like Ethelbert Bowler.”
She found herself pleased that he didn’t make a big deal of asking where the name came from but just took it in his stride.
“Don’t undersell yourself,” she said. “Think positive. Ethelbert Bowler…it has an artistic ring…makes you sound like a minor Victorian watercolourist. Are you interested in art, Ethelbert? Under any of your hats?”
“I could probably dig out an old French beret,” he said cautiously. “Why?”
“The Centre’s new gallery opens week after next with a local arts and crafts exhibition. There’s a preview the Saturday before, lunchtime. Care to come?”
He said, “Are you going by choice or because you’re on the payroll?”
She said, “Does it matter? OK, it’s sort of semi-duty. Centre politics, you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Try me till I yawn,” he said.
“OK. The Centre’s tri-partite, right? Heritage, Arts, Library. Library was easy, Percy Follows was Head of Library Services already, so he just slid into the new position. And it looked like Philomel Carcanet who ran the old municipal museum/art gallery on Shuttleworth Hill would likewise take over the new Heritage and Arts strands in the Centre. Except it’s all proving a bit much for her. You yawning yet?”
“No, just breathing deeply with excitement.”
“Fine. Dead things Philomel is really good with, living things in any quantity scare her stiff. She was delirious with excitement when the builders’ digging unearthed that mosaic pavement. Then they decided to incorporate it into this Roman Experience thing-you must have read about it, a Mid-Yorkshire marketplace at the height of the Roman occupation?”
Hat nodded, he hoped convincingly.
“I believe you,” she said, not bothering to sound convinced. “Anyway, that meant Phil had to start thinking about catering for live punters, live people again and it all got on top of her. So she’s on sick leave. Meanwhile, someone’s had to sort out the new gallery. Normally our Percy would run a mile rather than get involved with extra work, but there’s a new factor. Word is that the council, Stuffer Steel apart, are contemplating appointing an overall director of the Centre. And our Percy imagines he’s at the front of the queue for the job. But a trumpet sounds upstage left. Enter Ambrose Bird, the Last of the Actor-Managers.”
“Who?”
“Where do you live? Ambrose Bird, who ran the old municipal theatre till it was closed last month, mainly as a result of Councillor Steel’s opposition to the large grant needed to refurbish it up to health and safety standards. This has left the Last of the Actor-Managers (that’s his own preferred title) with nothing to act in or manage but the Centre’s much smaller studio theatre. That was definitely a yawn!”
“No, it was the beginning of an interjection. I was going to guess that this Bird guy has decided he’d like to put in for the Centre Director’s job too.”
“Have you ever thought of becoming a detective?” asked Rye. “Spot on. So Bird and Follows are locked in deadly combat. It’s quite fun to watch them, actually. They don’t try very hard to conceal the way they feel about each other. Anything in the Centre they can lay claim to, the pair of them are there, like dogs after a bone. The Roman Experience is drama, says Ambrose, so he takes responsibility for sound effects and training the people playing the market stallholders. Poor old Perce is left with language and smells.”
“Smells?”
“Oh yes. The authentic smells of Roman Britain. Cross between a rugby changing room and an abattoir, as far as I can make out. Look, I’m beginning to yawn myself. The upshot of this is that Percy has countered by grabbing the lion’s share of the preview arrangements and, with typical sexist insensitivity, has volunteered all his female staff to run around with the chardonnay and nibbles. End of story. You did pretty well, unless like a horse you can sleep with your eyes open.”
“So why is a bright, lively, independent, modern woman like yourself putting up with this crap?” said Hat with what he hoped was convincing indignation.
She said defensively, “It’s no big deal. I’d have gone anyway. Dick will have a couple of paintings in. He’s a bit of an artist.”
She saw him toy with a crack, but was glad to see he was bright enough to drop the idea.
“In that case,” he said, “and as I too am on the public payroll, why not? Dress casual, is it?”
“Dress artistically,” she murmured. “Which brings me to a very important question. What does the well- dressed twitcher wear in Stangdale, Hat?”
He studied her seriously to hide his delight at having guessed rightly that he was being offered a trade-off, then said, “Well, starting from the inside out, have you got any thermal underwear?”
8
JAX RIPLEY’S COLLEAGUES had noticed that she was in vacant or pensive mood all that Friday afternoon. Normally as she put together the items for her early evening show, she was incisive and openly impatient with anyone who wasn’t moving at her speed. But today she didn’t seem to be able to make up her mind about things. Out and About was usually made up of several pre-recorded pieces linked by Jax, concluding with a live studio piece on some topic of particular local interest. All that she had pencilled in for this today was short story comp trail?
“Who are the guests?” asked John Wingate, the station manager. He was a middling aged plump man with a lean and hungry face, as if his chronic anxiety about everything had done a deal with his body and drawn a demarcation line around his neck. Below this, the soft folds of pink flesh glowed with health, and, warmed by sun or sex, gave off an odour which reminded Jax of her childhood bed beneath which her provident mother laid out rows of apples to see them through the North Yorkshire winter. Screwing Wingate had been a pleasure as well as a career move.
“No guests…Just me.”
“So, couple of minutes,” he said doubtfully. “That leaves us well short, Jax.”
“No, I need the time.”
“Why? How the hell can you spin something as boring as a short story competition trail out beyond ninety seconds?”
“Trust me,” she said.
“You up to something, Jax?” he said suspiciously. “I hate it when you say ‘trust me.’”
She finally made up her mind, reached out a hand to rest on his thigh and smiled.
“It’ll be all right, John,” she said.
In a life of bad career moves, John Wingate wasn’t certain where he placed screwing Jax Ripley. She’d been a journalist on the Gazette when they first met and the chance of a one-night stand after a media party which Moira, his wife, hadn’t attended because she was over in Belfast visiting her sick mother had seemed too good to pass by. And it had been good. He grew warm now just recalling it and the other encounters that followed, one in particular which had taken place in his office a couple of weeks later when she presented herself for interview. “I’ve come about the position,” she said, climbing on to his desk and spreading herself before him. “How about this one for starters?”
And under the doubtless approving gaze of the members of Unthank College old boys rugby fifteen whose photo, holding the Mid-Yorkshire Cup which they’d won some years ago under his captaincy, hung on the wall behind his chair, he accepted the invitation, after which she accepted the job.
She’d learned quick and her rapid advancement was easily justifiable in terms of sheer talent, or so he reassured himself whenever, as now, he gave way to her wishes. There’d never been any hint of menace from Jax and she’d always behaved with the utmost discretion, but this didn’t stop him from feeling that he had less control over his life, both professional and personal, than before her arrival. At least, thank God, he knew he didn’t have to worry she was after his job. She had set her sights over the hills and faraway, in the greener pastures of Wood Lane, and if golden opinions from himself could speed her on her way, all the better.
Maybe that was the explanation of her distraction today.
