the “Last Hurrah”!’
The vigour with which he raised his arm for the toast nearly overbalanced him. Amy reached out a hand and helped him down from the chair.
Ben appeared. ‘Is there really a map?’ he asked the Admiral respectfully. ‘I’d love to see it. Treasure Island has always been one of my favourite books.’
‘Has it now? So you like stories of buried treasure, do you?’
‘Certainly do,’ said Ben. Amy saw him make a subtle sign to Stan that had to mean he should capture this scene on his camera. No doubt he was hoping for more footage of what he’d refer to in his presenterese as ‘Fitz’s lovable eccentricity’. ‘And you say the treasure is buried somewhere in the Caribbean?’
‘That treasure is,’ the Admiral replied judiciously. ‘Though you might do better looking for ill-gotten gold rather nearer to home.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ben eagerly.
‘What indeed?’ The Admiral’s eyes gleamed with what Amy recognised as his mischievous look. It did her heart good to see it back. She had been worried by Fitz’s lack of animation over the past few weeks. ‘Well, perhaps we can have a talk about that tomorrow,’ he went on. ‘I think tomorrow is going to be full of all kinds of revelations.’
‘Guilty secrets about Crabwell’s drug fiends, illegitimate children, and rich old people murdered in their beds?’ suggested Ben Milne.
Really, thought Amy, was this how he tried to get his interviewees onto the scurrilous gossip tack? She’d thought he would be more subtle.
The Admiral, however, was too canny to give any response that might provide titillation for Ben’s viewers. ‘That kind of thing, yes,’ he said, his intonation firmly suggesting that the subject was closed.
Ben looked as though he would like to keep grilling Fitz, but instead he was nobbled by the Reverend Victoria Whitechurch. ‘Mr Milne, we need to have a talk about spreading the word of God. If you want to get a full impression of what life in the village is like, you and your cameraman will, I hope, be with us in church next Sunday?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll be finished with filming and back in London by then.’
‘But maybe you could come and visit St Mary’s tomorrow? It’s in terrible need of repair, and if its condition was seen on national television, it might—’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ben quite brusquely, ‘the subject of my documentary is the pub, not the church.’ The vicar recoiled, suitably snubbed.
Amy went back behind the bar and started washing up the dirty glasses. Someone came and asked for the bar menu. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Last orders were twenty minutes ago. The kitchen’s closed.’ It was a shame. The pub hadn’t been this full since Christmas, and a little earlier she’d asked Meriel if she’d be prepared to take orders beyond the usual cut-off point.
‘Ah, now, that’s a pity,’ the cook had said. There was no hint of regret in her smile, indeed it could only be described as smug. ‘Business has been so good, food’s run out. I’ll have to be on the phone first thing tomorrow morning to restock. Now, if you’ll forgive me,’ she said with heavy emphasis, ‘I’ve an order for steak and chips to send out.’
Quietly furious, Amy had gone back to the bar. The two women had always riled each other, and sometimes Meriel’s attitude was downright offensive.
For the rest of the evening she wished she had organised extra staff. Ted, the odd-job man who helped out, was drinking in the corner, but she knew asking him to serve behind the bar was more trouble than it was worth. He was old, not a bad cook, and fine for bringing in logs from the outside store, but managing the electronic till was beyond his capabilities.
So, ever conscious of costs, she had decided not to draft anyone else in, but battle through on her own. How was she to have known they’d have so many customers? What in heaven’s name was it about the possibility of being caught on camera that attracted people so? The pressure made it difficult for her to keep an eye on Ben and his cameraman. Though the Admiral continued to be at the centre of a jovial crowd, all prompting a continuous string of reminiscences, the television duo now seemed to be concentrating on a series of ‘vox pops’, short interviews with the locals on their opinions of the Admiral Byng.
She knew an interview with the Admiral himself was scheduled the next day. She stood for a moment watching Ben and his cameraman in action. A sense of anger began to fill her as she realised how the presenter was drawing out his interviewees, all of them well under the influence of alcohol. Whatever they were telling him was likely to reflect badly on themselves as well as the pub. The Admiral Byng was certainly not going to be shown as somewhere viewers were going to flock to for a good night out.
‘Ooh, that Ben Milne is a caution,’ said Joan, one of their regulars, plonking her tankard on the bar for a refill of her ‘special’, a small brandy mixed with a large fizzy orange. Her best wig was worn at a slight angle, its glossy black curls tip-tilted over one ear. ‘Makes me feel twenty again. Understand he’s staying here.’ She gave a loud cackle filled with meaning. ‘If I were your age, sweetie, I’d be in there without a second thought.’ The washed-out blue of her eyes twinkled.
‘There you go,’ Amy said, resisting any response and drowning the brandy in orange. ‘Any jobs coming up, Joan?’
‘Ah, now there’s a thing. Got a call this morning. Did you hear there’s a new version of Far from the Madding Crowd being shot here in Crabwell? They’ll be at the Tithe Barn next week and I’m down for an old lady selling eggs. “Little less of the old,” I told them.’ She gave Amy a broad grin. ‘With those wide hats they put us in, I could pass for forty.’ The tankard was picked up, and Joan looked back at Ben, now affecting close attention as he listened to the local bookseller, who would be sounding off about planning permission difficulties. Without it, Amy knew, the bookshop couldn’t be sold as perfect for conversion to a private dwelling. After all, who wanted to buy a bookshop these days? ‘Looks as though our brown-eyed boyo needs rescuing,’ said Joan. ‘He’d love to hear about my filming.’ Off she sailed, navigating her way through the crowded room with the ease of a small tug.
Amy smiled for a moment; when she was eighty years old, she hoped she’d have Joan’s verve and optimism. At the moment she lacked any of either. But it was good news about the Far from the Madding Crowd filming. Maybe the crew would need accommodation. Though if they were coming next week and hadn’t made a booking by now, they’d probably found somewhere else to stay.
Suddenly the Admiral was leaning towards her over the bar. ‘Amy, my dear, that talk we must have. I think tomorrow morning, yes?’
‘Of course, Fitz.’ After a moment’s hesitation, she added, ‘Can you give me some idea what it’s about?’
He ran a hand over his rumpled hair without much effect, and for a moment looked embarrassed. ‘Some unsettling information has come to my ears…’ He seemed about to go further, but then changed his mind. ‘No, I shall say no more. Let us leave it until tomorrow. Tonight has gone well, has it not? My “Last Hurrah”?’
Then he was gone, leaving Amy tied in a tangle of unpleasant thoughts.
‘Some unsettling information has come to my ears.’ The words echoed uneasily in her mind. What could the Admiral have found ‘unsettling’? Somehow it didn’t
