Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (13 page)

“You’re not leaving us, Duchess? Please don’t. We’re counting on you. We need a good mainstream book in the worst way. Otherwise we’ll be stuck publishing nothing but smut the rest of our lives. Please stay.”

I set down my suitcases. Didn’t they understand that I had nowhere to go?

“I need a place to sleep. To put my things…”

He gestured at the big double doors at the end of the corridor.

“I don’t see why Tom wouldn’t be willing to share the warehouse. Plenty of room in there.” He knocked on Davey’s door. “What say we move the Duchess to the warehouse?”

Davey, also clutching tea, opened his door.

“Fine with me, but Tom may not be in the best of moods. He’s been summoned by Rodd Whippington.”

Liam picked up a suitcase and led me through the double doors, revealing an industrial space, stacked high with cartons, old sewing equipment, and pallets of books. At one end, where big windows looked over the river, were several easels and paintings in various stages of completion, plus a sleeping bag unrolled on the floor.

Davey, following with the rest of the luggage, nodded in the direction of the windows.

“That’s Tom’s studio. But maybe we could make you a room behind the book pallets—over here.” He walked toward a corner to the left of the doors.

“I think there’s probably an extra table somewhere around here,” said Liam. “And I can give you my futon. Hate the bloody thing. Only Much uses it.”

I sighed as Davey and Liam set down my luggage between two pallets stacked with
Amber’s Agony
, and
Beauty in Bondage
.

So this would be my new life: Snug amidst the smut; sleeping on a dog’s cast-off bed. But it was the only thing on offer. I attempted a smile and thanked them.

The doors burst open and Tom stomped in, looking as if he might hurt anybody who got in his way.

“I’m off, mates,” he said in a fake-cheerful voice. “My services are no longer required.” He took a painting from an easel and slammed it against a large piece of machinery, ripping a hole in the center of the canvas. “Tell Peter I’ll be back to get my paintings from the office after Rodd fucking Whippington has left the premises.” He folded the easel and threw it to the floor, scooping up his paints and tossing them into a battered case. “I’ll have to go home by train, which means I’ll be able to take fuck-all with me. If Peter ever brings his bloody car back, tell him to bring my gear up to Leeds.” He grabbed an empty box from a stack and started tossing clothes inside.

“Just pack for a week or two,” said Liam. “Peter’s bound to re-hire you as soon as he gets back. He won’t be half wound up when he hears what Henry’s done.”

Tom shrugged. “I wouldn’t work here now if Peter offered me three times the money. Three times naught is naught. Henry did me a favor. This place is going under. Sooner than you think, mates.”

Davey started packing up Tom’s things with angry efficiency.

“The only thing that surprises me about Henry,” he said. “Is how far he can crawl up his own arse. He wanted to sack me as soon as he heard I’ve been inside. Luckily I’m the only one what can take care of the bloody machines.”

Tom shouldered his backpack and lifted his artist’s kit.

“I want to make the next train. Ring me when Peter gets back. If he gets back.”

He let both doors slam as he stomped out.

Henry had fired Peter’s best friend. I wondered what he knew that we didn’t.

I looked around the warehouse as Davey packed boxes of Tom’s things. I tried to help by picking up a box, but I didn’t quite know what to do with it. I stacked it on top of several others, then piled another on top. I felt useless.

“Are you building a wall?” Liam looked at my stack of boxes

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Davey. “We could build your room here in this corner by the windows, instead of over in the dark. There’s a nice view.”

A view—a glimpse of the river through iron bars and filthy glass—over a wall topped with razor wire. But yes, the river was magnificent. I would make the best of it. But Peter would have a lot to answer for when he got back.

If he got back.

A few hours later, with the help of a couple of hand trucks, the three of us had built a comical structure in the corner of the warehouse. Against one wall was Tom’s work table, which, although paint-spattered, made a serviceable desk. Against the other, we put Liam’s discarded futon, covered with the duvet I had used as a robe when escaping Henry that morning. The other two walls were constructed of cartons of books stacked six feet high and covered with old blankets. We’d pinned some of Tom’s sketches to the fabric, which gave it the look of particularly quirky avant-garde art gallery. My suitcase sat on a cast iron stand from an ancient sewing machine, and an old office chair faced the view of the river.

“How about my computer?” I said as I cleaned paint off my improvised desk. “Is there computer hook-up here like in Ratko’s room?”

Liam laughed. “Never was a need. Tom’s a complete Luddite.”

But Davey wasn’t laughing. His eyes looked sad under the dark brows.

“Duchess, your computer…I might be able to salvage the hard drive, but it’s pretty bollixed up.”

I should have expected this, but the news hurt.

“I have a friend who might be able rebuild it,” Davey said. “He’s a bloody genius and he’s got parts for everything. But I can’t guarantee when he might get round to it. He sometimes goes walkabout and nobody hears from him for weeks…”

Apparently a common habit around here. I tried to smile.

Davey patted my shoulder. “Buck up, Duchess. I’ve got a desktop in the office, and I’m hardly ever there. I prefer to work with my laptop in my digs.”

“Can I get my mail on it?”

“Of course. The office is warm, too. And Vera’s good company.”

As if on cue, Vera appeared outside of the little room, carrying a tray of tea mugs with a sugar bowl and milk.

“Oh, it isn’t half cozy!” she said as I lifted the blanket door and invited her in. She offered tea all around. “Like a little girl’s Wendy House. She gave me a smile. “I do apologize for Henry. He’s a good bloke, but he seems to have gone right bonkers. I can’t believe he sacked Tom. I’m still reeling.”

“Henry’s a stupid bloody ass,” said Davey, rolling himself a cigarette. “Peter will have to do a lot of persuading to get Tom to come back. And he’ll never find another artist to work for the pittance he was getting.”

Vera shook her head. “Henry’s already replaced him, I’m afraid.”

Liam and Davey looked as if they might spit out their tea. “He’s hired another artist? Somebody local?”

Vera kept shaking her head, as if she wanted to negate her own words. “He’s hired Alan Greene, from the Merry Miller. Something not right about that chap. But he studied at the Royal College of Art, so Henry thinks the sun shines out his bum.”

Davey and Liam exchanged eyerolls as Vera admired the little makeshift room.

“So nice to see those pervy books put to good use,” Vera said. “All this place needs is some nice curtains and a comfy chair.” Her face lit up. “Or a settee. My husband George has been on about getting rid of the wicker settee and ottoman we have in the conservatory. He’d rather have something more modern. Why don’t I ask him and our Callum to bring them round tomorrow?”

I gave Vera a hug—for her offered gifts and her comforting presence. And her charming idea that this ramshackle shelter resembled a “Wendy House.” Of course, I’d feel more charmed if Peter Pan/Robin himself would reappear.

I couldn’t help thinking Tom might be right in his predictions about the dismal future of Sherwood, Ltd.

The little dog Much seemed to have taken on permanent responsibility for my welfare, for which I was grateful. He wasn’t a cuddly dog—just as well since he had a tendency to drool—but he hovered near me wherever I went and, when I prepared for bed in my new digs, he curled up at the foot of the bed.

I slept pretty well, in spite of the cold, thanks to several duvets donated by Liam and Davey. But the sun woke me at daybreak. I’d need some darkening curtains. Also, the trek to the bathroom in the half light turned out to be a dangerous obstacle course. I kicked something that fell over with a clatter as I walked by Davey’s room. His door opened and he peered out.

“Sorry I woke you. I’m trying to get to the loo,” I said. “Difficult in the dark.”

Davey pointed to a stack of plastic buckets in the corner. “Just use one of those,” he said. “Empty it in the morning. That’s what we do.”

So I’d gone from the Countess’s gold-plated bathroom fixtures to this. But as the Manners Doctor always said, “Time spent on regret was time wasted.”

I made my pilgrimage to the flush toilet, but on the way back, I grabbed an emergency bucket.

The next morning, I woke to Vera’s cheerful voice, informing me that George and Callum had arrived with the settee and “a few bits and bobs to cheer up the place.”

Liam and Davey helped open the doors on the side of the warehouse and the four men started bringing in the contents of a good-sized delivery truck. The settee had cushions of much-faded flowered chintz, and its matching ottoman showed signs of having accommodated many feet, but they were charming and comfortable. Vera’s “bits and bobs” consisted of a set of matching flowered curtains, some throw pillows, a pale blue duvet cover printed with ducks wearing bonnets, and a scruffy, but serviceable dresser. Vera’s husband—a smiling, quiet man who made deliveries for a bakery—and Callum, the energetic young son, made quick work of moving things in.

Within an hour, my nook felt almost like a room in cozy English cottage—except for the industrial ceiling many feet above, and the fact that the “door” consisted of a blanket hung on a broom handle hung between stacks of kinky books.

I was so grateful, I hardly knew what to say, but the cheery, matter-of-fact Winchesters behaved as if this were all in a day’s work. Vera told me where to go in town to find “charity shops” that sold second hand towels and sheets.

After I spent the afternoon giving another radio interview, escorted by the ebullient Mr. Vicars, I felt as if my Sherwood adventure might turn out all right, Peter or no Peter. After all, I wasn’t here for romance. I was here to publish a book. And Henry might be a pill, but he seemed a good deal more businesslike than Peter.

Davey showed me how to use his old computer at the desk behind Vera’s. I was disappointed to find nothing from Plant, but, then, I hadn’t even been gone a week. Plant did have a life.

When I returned to my Wendy House, I found an ancient radio on my bed, with a note from Davey saying he’d found it in his room when he arrived, and although the sound quality was “bollocks” it would do for listening to myself on the chat shows.

The radio was about the size of a shoebox and made of red plastic, with big, chrome dials. I turned one and the machine blared to staticky life. After playing around a bit, I tuned in on a man’s voice identifying the station as BBC Radio Four. Then came the tolling of a sonorous bell. Six bongs. Big Ben, ringing the hour of six o’clock: six PM, Greenwich Mean Time. I felt a transcendent thrill. Here I was. In England—the mean; the meridian; the center—where my language, my culture, and my manners came from. A place as solid, sensible and reliable as Big Ben itself.

Peter Sherwood—or whoever he was—might have disappeared. But I was in England, and I was going to make the most of it.

That evening, I found the men in the canteen, eating fish and chips and drinking ale from big brown bottles. They announced Henry had paid them some back pay, and promised to pay in full by the end of the week.

Tom’s absence deadened the mood, but Liam offered me beer and the Professor said he agreed with my assessment of
Fangs of Sherwood Forest
.

“It’s
Twilight
for pooftas. And the prose is unpublishable,” he said in a voice edged with anger. “But now the Baron has Henry reading it.”

This seemed odd. “But Major Oak—isn’t that Peter’s domain, not Henry’s?”

“Who knows?” the Professor said. “We’re all mushrooms—to use Meggy’s term.” His voice cracked a bit when he mentioned Meggy, and he looked nervous—so much that I wondered if something was going on between them. “But if you’d like to see my edits for your Dr. Manners book, we might as well behave as if it’s launching as planned. The lads have told me about the tragedy with your computer. But I’ve got your project on a flash drive. I’ll bring it in tomorrow with my edits. I know Peter wanted to go with it as is, but I think it will be even better with a few tweaks. Tiny things. Nothing like the overhaul that would be needed for that vampire mess.”

“I can’t imagine Peter will be happy if Henry accepts that silly book,” I said.

Nobody answered. In fact, nobody mentioned Peter’s name again all evening.

The following morning, the Professor came wheeling into my Wendy House with the flash drive and an ancient laptop he said Davey had unearthed from the office. It had a primitive version of Word, so I was able to get down to work. Too old for Internet hook-up, but it allowed me to write. The Professor’s suggestions were good ones.