Heaven Sent, page 17
‘They’ve got my wife’s home-made hot cider-punch in those flasks,’ Syd told her. ‘And it’s lethal. So at least they won’t be cold – just bladdered. Right, Guy – are we ready?’
Guy nodded, tense now, his face darkly immobile. Clemmie ached to kiss him, to tell him he was wonderful, to tell him it would all go like a dream because he was the most brilliant pyrotechnician in the world. Instead, because any one of those things would let him know precisely how she felt about him, she just winked at him.
‘Stick with me, baby,’ he said, winking back at her. ‘And let’s get this show on the road.’
Chapter Fifteen
As if by magic, following their well-rehearsed routine, the entire crew melted to their display positions. Following Guy to the back of the largest van where the control panels, computers and remote firers were set out like something from NASA, Clemmie held her breath.
The local displays had all but died away, and the frosty night was clear, dark, silent. Tarnia had chosen her time well. There’d be no aerial competition.
As the first strains of Mariah Carey echoed into the field, a nonstop fountain of colour erupted into the sky accompanied by whistles and screams.
‘Oh,’ Clemmie breathed. ‘Candle bundles … Ah! That’s clever – all pinks and whites and golds – specially for Tarnia. Nice touch.’
One after the other, without time to draw breath, the fireworks ignited, and the display went perfectly, each massive barrage longer, brighter, noisier, more spectacular than its predecessor until the whole world seemed to be filled with reflected incandescence.
To “Lady in Red” a mass of scarlet and ruby chrysanthemums erupted in a series of wide arcs all around the field, and hung teasingly in the sky as further cushions of colour whistled, expanded, exploded and finished in a tumbling cascade of stars.
Then a salvo of rockets screamed skywards, dozens and dozens of them fired at the same time, criss-crossing the sky, leaving rainbow meteors plummeting in their wake.
It was as if the heavens had detonated, splintering the planets and sending the galaxies crashing to earth.
Guy was a master, Clemmie thought, shivering with excitement. It was without doubt the most extravagantly expert display she’d ever seen.
‘Multishots next,’ he said, his lips close to her ear, his voice hoarse.
Syd, his fingers working miracles on the computer keyboard, grinned. ‘Shame they’re going to drown out Sir Elton.’
The multishots were even more spectacular – sending a thousand time-delayed comets hurtling heavenwards, each one changing colour in the blink of an eye, until the dizzying, dazzling effect formed a ceiling of stars.
Clemmie had long since given up listening to Tarnia’s choice of elevator-musak. It simply didn’t matter. She cast a quick glance across to the viewing platform and smiled. Despite Guy’s gloomy predictions, the entire party was staring upwards, open-mouthed.
The time flew. Clemmie would have happily stayed there, close to Guy, watching his brilliance come to life, for the rest of her days.
‘Finale,’ Guy nodded towards the crew. ‘And so far so good.’
The finale, designed to fit exactly to Tarnia’s selected George Michael compilation, was five minutes long, a non-stop deafening grand slam of squirming, spinning white-hot serpents tearing towards the half-moon, spiralling into the ether, then each one separating, then tantalisingly slowly bursting into enormous coloured peonies which hung in the sky for ever before melting into an earthbound firestorm of glittering sequins.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. All that remained was a swirling cloud of smoke and the smell of gunpowder.
The silence was awesome.
Clemmie was trembling. Her ears were filled with the noise, her eyes with reflected luminescence, her whole body infused with the gut-tingling scent of cordite.
‘Oh my God.’
Dazedly, the viewing platform rose to its feet as one, and whooped and hollered and applauded their delight. The Gunpowder Plot’s crew all grinned and jigged and did high-fives.
Guy, Clemmie noticed, looked relieved, totally drained, and ecstatically happy.
She took a deep breath. ‘That was simply amazing.’
He gave her a wearily triumphant smile. ‘It went well, didn’t it?’
‘Understatement.’ Clemmie met his eyes, deciding that the truth was needed now however he chose to interpret it. ‘And you know it. It was inch-perfect. Superb. You are very, very talented.’
He grinned. ‘Thank you. Coming from someone with a better degree than me and who has possibly just cracked the biggest pyro puzzle in the world, that’s some compliment. I haven’t forgotten the Magik Green thing. We’ll have a go as soon as we’re cleared away.’
‘Great – I’ll go and rescue it from the back of the car. Do you want me to help with the clearing up?’
‘No thanks, we’ve got a pretty good routine. You just stay here and keep warm. I won’t be long.’
Then, with the rest of the pyrotechnicians, Guy dissolved silently and efficiently into the darkness to start the after-show safety-checking and clearing up and packing away.
Clemmie, still stunned, huddled at the back of the van, and smiled dreamily.
Tarnia and Snotty Mark and their guests had all trampled across the field and were enthusiastically congratulating whichever crew member they could get closest to.
‘Drinks for all of you chaps and chapesses back at the stables!’ Snotty Mark guffawed, slapping the pyrotechnicians’ backs. ‘Wonderful show! First class! Well done!’
For someone she’d heard had been brought up on the Bath Road council estate in Hazy Hassocks, Clemmie reckoned Snotty Mark had taken reinvention to a whole new level. She’d almost expected him to cry ‘Top hole!’.
As the guests staggered dazedly away towards the stables and more gosling on toast or whatever latest culinary must-have the Sneppses had been duped into providing, led by a clearly delighted Snotty Mark, Tarnia seemed to have disappeared. She’d probably gone on ahead to pour the après-display champagne, Clemmie thought. Even if she was having a predatory skulk in the darkness, at least with the rest of the pyro crew around, Guy should stay safe.
He was back in a remarkably short time. The residue of smoke still hung over the Big Meadow in a gauzy haze, but all other traces of The Gunpowder Plot’s display had now completely disappeared.
‘Syd and the others are nipping back to the stables to join in the posh nosh,’ Guy said. ‘Which will give us a perfect opportunity to try out your Allbard’s thing. I’ll grab a tube and fuse and some powder, you go and get your mix, and let’s see what we’ve got.’
Having retrieved the makings of the final stage of Seventh Heaven, they smiled at each other, co-conspirators in a twenty-first century gunpowder plot.
As always when trying out some new chemical recipe, Clemmie felt the anticipation bubbling inside her. She skidded across the frosty grass, her breath hovering in smoky plumes in the freezing air.
Working by torchlight, Guy had set up one of the cardboard tubes in the back of the largest van. ‘I’ve fixed the fuse inside and packed the first layer of black powder.’ He looked up as Clemmie clambered in beside him, hoiking her long red coat up round her knees. ‘We’re not going to be able to use a binder on the compound – but that won’t matter as this is only going to be a trial run – and we don’t need a regulator or anything tricky.’
‘Right.’ Clemmie unscrewed her Kilner jar and, with shaking hands, ladled her chlorophyll-verdigris-jaundy-ash mixture carefully into the tube. ‘There – that should be enough to give us some sort of idea of the colour. If we just pack it down a bit …’
‘I’ll make another one, just in case the fuse fails, and it’ll be good to have a control anyway. We don’t want to claim success on a one-off, do we?’
‘No way,’ Clemmie laughed softly. ‘That would be sooo unscientific. Right … You take the torch and the spades for digging, and I’ll take both the fireworks. If we set up over there, that should be far enough away.’
Totally absorbed in their joint venture, they grinned at one another again, scrambled out of the van and now, ignoring the sub-zero temperatures, hacked deep into the grass and eventually managed to sink the first tube firmly into the solid ground.
Clemmie straightened up. ‘Phew! That’s my exercise done for the next ten years. Right – have you got the light?’
‘Yes, but you do the honours,’ Guy said, also out of breath, handing her the glowing portfire. ‘This is your baby.’
‘OK … One, two three – here goes!’
Shivering, Clemmie lit the fuse and they both retreated rapidly to the safety of the van.
The fuse could just be seen, glowing feebly in the pitch dark. Clemmie was holding her breath. Oh, God, oh God, oh God … don’t let it fail. Don’t let it flicker and die. Don’t let it—
‘It’s going,’ Guy whispered. ‘Right – now we’ll see – Jesus!’
With a swoosh and whoosh that made them both jump, their home-made firework exploded, illuminating the Big Meadow in a brief shimmering diaphanous green cloud.
A deep, dark green; a true forest green with fathomless green-blue undertones; the allegedly unobtainable ocean green. It looked unspeakably beautiful, so ethereal that even Clemmie felt she could believe – just a little – in the magic of Seventh Heaven.
‘Bloody hell!’ Clemmie gulped as the verdant colour gently ebbed away. ‘Oh, my God!’
‘You are a star! A genius!’ Guy exclaimed, hugging her. ‘Jesus Christ, Clemmie – what have you done?’
‘We,’ she said, loving being held so tightly in his arms. ‘This is very much a joint venture. Oh, I feel sick.’
Guy let her go. ‘Yeah, I have that effect on some people.’
She punched him gently. ‘You know what I mean – but, oh, wow!’
‘Oh, wow! just about sums it up. I think you – OK, we – we might have hit on something pretty remarkable,’ Guy’s voice was faint, ‘but let’s try out the second one, just to make sure.’
They slithered across the crisp glittering grass again, feeling like conspiratorial children.
‘You light this one.’ Clemmie handed him the portfire. ‘It’s only fair.’
‘Right – there – that’s it – now stand well back.’
‘Guy! You naughty, naughty boy!’ Tarnia appeared suddenly from the darkness just as the fuse started to glow. ‘What on earth are you doing here still playing with your fireworks? I’ve been waiting for you back at the house. I’ve got something much more exciting for you to play with.’
Oh, shit!
Clemmie shot a frantic look at Tarnia, who had changed into a totally unsuitable, considering the rapidly plummeting temperature, seduction outfit of short pink miniskirt and sparkly gold vest-top, and who was positively vibrating with lust.
‘Guy …’ Tarnia pouted, elbowing Clemmie out of the way. ‘Come along, you gorgeously sexy man, you. I’ve got a little extra special treat waiting for you while Marquis is otherwise engaged.’
The second Magik Green firework ignited exactly the same as the first.
Guy looked frantically at Tarnia, then pleadingly at Clemmie. ‘Oh bloody hell – I wish there was some way she’d fancy the pants off her bloody husband and think I’m the most gruesome nerd she’s ever clapped eyes on – while retaining me to fire her future pyro displays, of course.’
Clemmie, mentally dredging up the words that she’d repeated over and over ever since Halloween, knew it was now or never to prove the true worth of Allbard’s Magik Green.
She looked at Guy. ‘Maybe there is a way. It’s worth a try. Remember what the book said about wishes coming true? Why don’t we try it now? There’s nothing to lose.’ Clemmie stared defiantly at Tarnia as the Big Meadow was once more suffused in the glorious deep-green glow. She cleared her throat.
‘Verdigris and verture pure
Sparks with nature’s verdanture
Makes wishes forever endure.’
‘What?’ Tarnia blinked her long eyelashes at Clemmie in surprise. ‘Did you say something, Clemmie? Goodness me – it’s freezing out here – what am I doing here anyway? Where’s my Marquis? I want my Marquis.
And totally ignoring Guy, she teetered bemusedly away in the direction of the stables.
Clemmie clapped her hands to her mouth in stunned delight. The scientist in her wanted to say it was coincidence but Tarnia’s change in manner – and prey – had been so sudden that there was only one real explanation for what had happened. She and Guy had made it happen; he had made the wish and she had said the spell that made it come true.
Guy caught on quicker than she would have credited. ‘Absolutely bloody fantastic!’ He swept Clemmie up in his arms and swung her round. ‘All that talk about magic we thought was tosh but it works, Clem! It bloody works! Not only have we discovered the holy grail of fireworks – making a colour no one else can – but we’ve just made a wish come true, haven’t we? I tell you, we’ve discovered the holy grail!’
Chapter Sixteen
‘Well.’ Constance Motion, her face puckered angrily beneath her flamboyant hairdo of lacquer-stiff curls and whorls, peered at her cousins across the oak-lined office of the Motions Funeral Parlour in a Hazy Hassocks back street. ‘I call it a damnable cheek. It’s apparently all laid out in here – we don’t get a chance to add any of our personal touches. We just have to follow the instructions.’
It was three days after Bonfire Night. The weather had remained bitterly cold and frosty, and the Daily Express was already forecasting snow.
The Motions, Constance, Perpetua and Slo, unmarried elderly cousins thrown together in the undertaking business by inheriting a third share each from their respective sibling fathers, hoped very much that the Daily Express was right. An early winter was always good for business.
However the weather wasn’t their main topic of conversation this morning.
They’d had a letter. From America.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Perpetua sniffed, folding her thin grey hands into her thin grey lap. ‘Have you, Slo?’
Slo – christened, whether by accident or design no one really knew, Sidney Lawrence Oliver – shook his head. ‘Nope. Max Angel don’t ring no bells with me.’
‘That was his stage name,’ Constance snapped, her mean red-slashed lips turning inwards, ‘according to this letter. He was one of them pop singers in the sixties. Guitarist with the Burning Banshees. Probably died of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll.’
‘Lucky bastard,’ Slo muttered.
Constance glared at him. ‘He was born and raised here in Hassocks and was called …’ she traced the words with a podgy much-ringed finger, ‘James Lesney.’
‘Lesney … Lesney …’ Slo’s elderly brow furrowed in concentration. ‘Ah … There was them Lesneys what lived out on the Bath Road, our Con. Remember ‘em? Big family. About ten kiddies. One of them might have been a James.’
‘Little Jimmy Lesney!’ Perpetua suddenly piped up. ‘Yes, I remember him. Lovely boy. I bought all his records.’
‘That was Little Jimmy Osmond,’ Constance said coldly.
They stared again at the letter. It had caused a bit of a commotion, arriving as it had by airmail with a lot of foreign stamps. And if the outside of the bulky envelope had caused the Motions consternation, its contents had been even more disturbing.
Max Angel, the artist formerly known as James Lesney, had sadly departed this life during his sixtieth year, on stage in a small town in America’s Midwest during an energetic rendition of one of his greatest hits.
It was, the letter from Max’s American agent told them, the way he’d have wanted to go, and also his final wish that his funeral service should take place in his home village, Hazy Hassocks. An internet search had shown that the Motions were the only funeral parlour in said village, and therefore Max’s mortal remains were to be handled by the Motions, the funeral to be organised To The Letter of his last requests.
‘The agent says Max never married, and there are no relatives in America, but a service of remembrance has been arranged in the States for his many friends and fans at a later date. Oh, and none of Max’s family are still living here in Hazy Hassocks, nor have been in touch with him for years – although they’ve all been informed of his sad passing.’ Constance used the voice she usually saved for breaking the bad news of funeral fees to the nearest and dearest. ‘None of them want anything to do with the funeral. He was considered the black sheep.’
‘Probably kept all his money to himself.’ Slo fidgeted with his knitted waistcoat. ‘And never sent any home to his kin. Them Lesneys were allus tight buggers. Doubt he left ’em anything in his will either. They wouldn’t like that.’
Perpetua nodded sagely. ‘They don’t. Families. They like to get their hands on as much as possible. So, go on, our Connie, what sort of service does this pop star want? All glitter and guitars and dancing girls? It could be quite exciting.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ Constance patted her rigid hair. ‘I’m getting to that. Slo! Where are you going?’
‘Lav.’ Slo had stood up and was shuffling from foot to foot. ‘That ‘erbal tea you makes us for breakfast allus goes straight through me.’
Constance narrowed her gimlet eyes. ‘Just make sure that’s all it is. I don’t want you sneaking off for a crafty fag. You’re supposed to have given up that filthy habit years ago. You know what the doctor said about your chest.’
‘Dr Avebury said my chest were fine,’ Slo wheezed as he edged through the door. ‘He said I had the lungs of a bloke half my age. He said I were a miracle of medical science considering all that formaldehyde I’ve digested over the years. Don’t you diss my chest, our Connie.’
‘I do wish he wouldn’t watch Pimp My Ride,’ Constance sighed as Slo disappeared. ‘Now, Perpetua – shall we see what else Max Angel has in store for us?’
