Olivia

By David Pearce

Frank Prettyman, owner and CEO of Celtic Literary Enterprises, is drowned attempting to locate C.D. Moreclay, a pig-farmer and the author of “The Party at the End of Time”, an unsolicited manuscript that both he and Frank are convinced is a masterpiece.
Celtic has traditionally, and profitably, specialised in the publication of peninsula romantic novels and Cornish poetry in translation. “The Party” is a radical departure from this tradition and there is opposition from within.
Following her husband’s death Olivia Prettyman takes over and, in deference to his wishes, proceeds with publication. The book is an international sensation but one of its features is the prediction that the cosmos will come to an end on a specified date.
Olivia suggests that the appropriate response is to hold a party. To her consternation it is decided that the obvious venue is “The Old Mill”, her house and paddock set in an idyllic Devon valley. She feels compelled to agree.
Her new-found friend and ally, Ellie, sets to work on the invitations that, given Moreclay’s associates, include members of the National Farmers’ Union (Pig) Branch, in addition Cornish Wailers, poets, romantic lady novelists, members of her daughter’s cycle racing team and any number of little old ladies.
Chaos ensues as characters from the Prettyman son, Henry’s, past invade the scene. Olivia despairs as, mounted on one of her magnificent horses, she observes the arrival of first a boatload of Vikings followed, to the delight of the feisty little old ladies, by pirates.
But it has rained for forty days and nights and high above the valley the holding tank in which Moreclay stores his pig-slurry splits its seams. Surfers gather to take advantage of the mother of all waves as it sweeps down carrying all before it and out to sea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Pearce
• Release date: Oct 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463241974

David Pearce

Long past my sell-by date but doing all I can to keep fit with daily exercise and a healthy breakfast I spend most of my time writing and listening to the radio with occasional excursions in the local countryside on my electric-assist bike. I live alone in southern France close to the river Rhone and possibly on borrowed time as there is a large nuclear plant close by.

Book preview

Celtic Literary Enterprises

cordially invite you

to meet our

CEO

OLIVIA

In a novel of deepest darkest Devon; the days when all went swimmingly.

by

DAVID R PEARCE

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1 - Ambush

CHAPTER 2 - Monday

CHAPTER 3 - Otto

CHAPTER 4 - Dotted is crossed ts

CHAPTER 5- Office Party

CHAPTER 6 - Gone

CHAPTER 7 - Starcross

CHAPTER 8 - It was Bim

CHAPTER 9 - Mash-up

CHAPTER 10 - Tossing pancakes

CHAPTER 11 - Dressings down

CHAPTER 12 - Best avoid clichés

CHAPTER 13 - Tantrum

CHAPTER 14 - Mysteries of existence

CHAPTER 15 - Masters of concealment

CHAPTER 16 - Extreme danger

CHAPTER 17 - A secular saint?

CHAPTER 18 - Revelations

CHAPTER 19 - The very one

CHAPTER 20 - What Olivia wrote

CHAPTER 21 - Tie in tours

CHAPTER 22 - The phenomenal Miley Drucker

CHAPTER 23 - A sensitive soul

CHAPTER 24 - Suggestion

CHAPTER 25 - The happy commuter

CHAPTER 26 - Lovers

CHAPTER 27 - Footnote

CHAPTER 28 - Obsessions

CHAPTER 29 - A shapely cock

CHAPTER 30 - Pounce

CHAPTER 31 - D-C in knots

CHAPTER 32 - Everyperson

A note from David Pearce

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Chapter 1 - Ambush

The snake slithered to the carpet. It lay passive, glistening. Olivia pressed her hands to her throat to stifle a scream. Her legs threatened to dump her beside the coiled creature. She took two shaky steps, plumped down on her bed and told herself to stop gasping, breathe in, one, two, three. She controlled the urge to scream, propped herself upright and waited, eyes closed, for the effects of that moment of hysteria to come under control; out through the nose, steadily, one, two, three.

When she opened her eyes it lay there neatly coiled. It had waited days to spring that surprise. How could she have failed to notice it, hanging over the back of the chair when it should have been in its rightful place along with all Frank’s other ties, ranged on the rack behind his wardrobe door? Calmer now, she had time in which to resent the uncharacteristic untidiness that had sprung such a horrible shock. A few days dead yet he could still reach out and bite her.

He had no right to, but what could she expect? He had teased when he was up and running. Was he likely to give up the habits of a lifetime merely because he was dead? She felt her body begin to relax. If she were to turn she would see her face in the mirror wearing what he would have described as a sickly grin; what one of his romantic lady novelists might characterise as the ghost of a smile.

Mirror! Mirrors! That was why she had come into the bedroom, moved the chair and disturbed the lurking reptile. The mirror was not as pristine and unblemished as her cleaning lady had come to expect. It was a good place to resume her domestic routine. She was pleased and proud of decisions she had made that took her out into the wide world but coming home was different, without Frank, and son Henry away at uni., she had to come to terms with rooms that they had filled, that now seemed larger, darker and inclined to melancholy. That was the last thing he would have wanted.

Don’t cry for me... refuse to mourn...phrases bounced about inside her head...became ear worms...scraps of titles, poems, songs. She was reminded of those balls that used to ping and pong on computer screens. She tried to remember whether she used to think silly thoughts before...had he still been here she could have asked him...Argentina, that was one of them and the other was by burning...a baby? a child? He would have been able to identify the quotation but had he been around to ask him she would not have been prey to this morbid introspection.

She moved deliberately to confront her image in the mirror that she had set herself to clean. Mirror, mirror on the wall, a handsome mirror with an elaborately moulded frame. She asked herself whether mirrors have qualities. Are there some that reflect with more sympathy than others, softening tones, eliminating lines, comforting the oppressed? She found comfort in cliché.

It would not do. She had a sentence in mind that must be completed. Perhaps for the first time she would do so without a witness – even herself. She turned from the mirror and then abruptly back – face to face might strengthen her resolve.

She said, Before he died.

Then, Before Frank died.

And then, Before Frank, my husband, killed himself.

She heard him say, My old mucker. My soul mate.

There! In the room, in her head as clear as a bell.

Old mucker!

It was he who had introduced the word. It was just the sort of nonsense word that he would use even if it annoyed her, especially if it annoyed her. Goodness knows where he got them from. She thought soul mate sounded vaguely American. She knew an American woman who had a dog that was her heart hound. Heart hound, soul mate, she preferred mucker, especially the way he used to say it, ol’ mucker. It made her sound like the oily rag he used to wipe down the lawn mower. She objected to the ol’ but she would have been hard pressed to explain how he could make even an oily rag sound affectionate; best perhaps not to try, best to keep it to herself.

She had finished her sentence. She had recreated the sound of his voice in her head startlingly clearly and now she wept for the first time, long tidal sobs that would never come to an end because they came from a time before they met and now they were parted and what she longed for most, and what she would remain longing for now for the rest of her life was that voice and those nonsensical words annoying her. She would throw a cushion at him. He had annoyed her so often that she had become a crack shot with a cushion. Sometimes she had been tempted to throw something hard, or pointed, hard and pointed, lethal even. Now she would never have the chance.

She looked away from the mirror that through tears looked like a shimmery pool in which she was drowning. Enough. She stood, angry that she was dissolving into mawkishness. She had finished her sentence, had had her cry, now it was time to pull herself together, better still:

Pull yourself together.

Another voice, her mother this time, sharp, snappy, those same words not so often addressed to her as to her father and then her mother would be remorseful and cuddle his head against her chest and say she didn’t mean it, but Olivia knew that she did because for much of the time her mother lived close to exasperation with them both.

Livvy, that dress! You’ll catch your death.

But her mother had adored it, so did her father.

All arms and legs!

And funny thin bony shoulders like oddly shaped porcelain plates. So she wore it to please them and froze and her mother threatened to send her to the laundry in it.

A refusal to mourn the death by parachute drop. The phrase sounded suitably risible when she coined it though she doubted whether it feels that way if one were the dropped. If that were the best her mind could do for her it was time to dry her eyes and apply make-up. What does it mean to mourn? To capitulate? Olivia doubted whether some people have much choice in the matter but she was determined not to be one of them.

Frank had sometimes said, You wouldn’t last five minutes without me.

He only said it because he was aware of how preposterous it was. He had teased her remorselessly, so did son Henry, the pair of them conspirators from the egg. Every now and again she had risen to the bait.

Like a spotty old trout.

No one had never accused him of a failure to live dangerously but they, father and son, enjoyed her explosions more than the fireworks on bonfire night.

"You dare to call me old."

Old again. She could take anything but old.

She was terrific when roused as she was the first to acknowledge and they suspected that she enjoyed her outrage as much as they did. What now? She could hardly explode at Henry on his own, poor lamb. It was the partnership, the conspiracy, that was what brought her wrath down upon their heads. How he would miss his father.

There!

She stood back from the mirror that she now saw with clear, decisive eyes. She congratulated herself; never had there been such a clear, polished, mirror. Mrs. Harvey would find nothing to complain about, confronted with such sparkling glass. She supposed that there can be few cleaning ladies in the land who exact such high standards. She managed another smile at the thought of how she had harassed them, father and son, to ensure that their areas were pristine and any guilty secrets locked away before Mrs. Harvey’s cleaning day.

Olivia felt her spirits lift, such an odd phrase that she carried it downstairs, repeating it to herself as she returned the cloth she had used and the glass polish to their place on the shelves beneath the back staircase. Now she had made her contribution to the good order of the house and twice forced herself past the dog on the stairs that must never be allowed to ambush her again.

She felt a renewed sense of resolution, a spring in her step that might be temporary so she must make the best of it and proceed with caution. There were decisions to be made and in the meantime Celtic Literary Enterprises was on hold, waiting for her to make them. Then she felt weak and sick at the thought of a lapse of concentration, if that is what it had been, of a moment when a silk tie slipping from the back of a chair had sabotaged her resolve and reduced it to hysteria, the fainting fit in Tesco, her own fault, too much too soon, but she had never felt such a fool and had it not been for Mel’s mum she would have looked even sillier. It was so important to maintain the facade but difficult to anticipate the surprises.

The week-end: Carole would come, they would ride, that would be a relief and she would have her all to herself now that she had persuaded, ordered, Henry to stay at uni. He would, she promised, be the first to know of any development if, for instance, his father’s body floated to the surface, though expert opinion appeared to think this highly unlikely and by this time undesirable. There were decisions to be made and she must make and announce them: the first that she was to pick up the reins, slip into his shoes, don the man...she hoped to think of a suitable and freshly minted cliché to convey the message that from now on she was the boss. Then there was the question of her husband’s pet project. She was not yet fully in the picture; she would have to sound individuals in order to gauge the opposition. That was her first thought. As she prepared her speech she practised dissimulation...on the one hand...on the other...it would not do. By Sunday night she had begun to accuse herself of indecision amounting to cowardice.

Monday she would stand before the board. They should, according to his account, be terrified, all those years in which he had wielded her as a weapon, portraying her as Lady Macbeth, as Medusa, as she who he dared not cross. It was, she, and she hoped they, understood, his little joke but she must take care not to allow their relief to discount her determination.

Sweetheart, she said, power dressing. Time for us to consult.

Black basque...thigh boots...whip.

Stupid girl. Come and help me choose.

Carole was not sure that she understood power dressing. She thought it doubtful that her aunt did either; smart, immaculate were words that she would apply and attempt to emulate.

Olivia said, A suit, I think.

They won’t expect black, will they? Deep mourning? Veil?

Christ no, not these days...at least, I don’t think so. I’m not Queen Victoria.

They inspected suits.

Too funereal. Too county. Too Maggie Thatcher. and then there it was, just the thing. She had worn it to a friend’s summer wedding, light, fawn...Carole gasped in admiration. She had never seen it before. Olivia held it against her body and Carole demanded that she put it on. They would add a dark blouse; Carole demanded the right to choose a necklace and earrings adorning herself with the chosen pieces before trying them on her friend, then came shoes and a clutch bag.

Carole said, Crikey. Aunt Livy...

They held back tears, Carole because although Olivia was not a real aunt she was moved by how smart she looked and Olivia because she remembered the afternoon when they had narrowed a range of suits down to three and she had insisted that Frank make the final choice.

Carole said, I could come with you...moral support.

Olivia refused. Carole would feel a need to chatter. She was the lovely daughter she had never had and she adored her but she would send her home now and be alone. She was determined to plan; nothing must be left to chance except chance itself and she must be prepared for that – no silk ties, no intrusive thoughts, but if in spite of her preparations shocks intruded there were to be no wobbles: firm knees, reassuring smiles and not a hair out of place. Frank would be proud of her and that decision – his pet project - must not be left to the vagaries of research. It was what he wanted. It must go ahead. That was decided. She felt better already.

Chapter 2 – Monday

Damp, the stream sluggish, held back by a high tide, the neighbour’s dog barking, flexing his muscles no doubt for an assault on the tyres the moment his master set their tractor in motion. A quick check on the horses, a glance round the paddock to ensure that all was well and Olivia returned to an egg that had boiled in her absence and a quaddling percolator. She would take the Rava and be in Exeter just after the morning congestion. There was a race meeting but the traffic...

The telephone rang. Olivia screamed. She had overlooked the telephone that her husband could hear from the paddock, the other side of the old tennis court or anywhere else he might be that rang just as loudly inside the house. It remained silent for long stretches of the year a - the rule was emergencies only. It had been, she swore, designed to produce heart attacks. It was, must be, The Bomber, another of Henry’s uninspired nick-names. He had been over-looked. As she picked up the ‘phone she wanted to shout at him but she remembered her husband’s advice:

Whatever else you do in life my darling, never ever upset a helicopter pilot.

Ha, she snapped, if you had taken your own advice you would still be...

Mrs. Prettyman? I thought I should ring in case you are needing my services today.

Mrs. Prettyman thanked him and told him that she would drive up by car and that she doubted whether she would need him this week though possibly next and would he please never ever use this telephone again or he might find himself seeking a new employer.

What else had she overlooked? She consulted her list. All appeared to be in order and she was on schedule. In fifteen minutes she would set off in the Rava because she could slip into it without bending about and creasing her suit. The local radio announcer informed her that there was a race meeting but she thought the horse boxes would be there by now and the spectator traffic would not arrive until later and in any case it was in the opposite direction and she had not thought about lunch. Did everybody at Celtic go out for lunch, or did they bring something with them? It was one of those details that she had never had to consider, assuming that Frank was able to look after himself in such matters.

Time for shoes. Time to set the alarm. Time to open the garage door and thank her husband for having had the automatic up and over installed, a quick glance at the horses and into the lane, another to ensure that the automatic systems were behaving as expected and into second for the steep hill. She would consult Henry about that outside ’phone, vile racket and redundant now that they all had mobiles. Mud on the lane in big greasy lumps. Consult Henry! She would make an executive decision and have it removed herself. Would he notice? Trust The Bomber to frighten her out of her socks...beastly man but she must stop using that stupid name or Bombs. She did not know which was worse.

There was heavy traffic on the A38 but Olivia felt no urge to join in the scramble. She tucked in behind an express coach and examined herself for signs of anxiety. So far, so good, she had, she felt, everything under control and they would be nice to her, sympathising with her loss and grateful that she had decided to step in and avoid a hiatus in the healthy progression of Celtic Literary Enterprises – or so they said.

The Rava was not keen on the idea of tucking in behind a coach. It was being driven swiftly but creating buffeting swirls of air that rocked the smaller vehicle. Olivia gave it its head and overtook. She patted the steering wheel; such a willing little beast and now they were free from turbulence, at least for the moment.

The question is what will they be thinking?

Olivia was aware of a range of laudable qualities in her vehicle but intelligent responses was not one of them, nevertheless she spoke out loud to establish that her voice had that ring of confidence that would be essential to the success of her mission. The left indicator signal clicked as she headed off the A38 into the lower reaches of the city. There was a quiet stretch before the mayhem begins and she took the opportunity for a morale check. So far so good and the decision not to accept Carole’s offer had been wise. She felt calm and capable and ready for anything that Celtic Literary Enterprises might have in store for her.

The man manning the barrier helped with a friendly salute. He emerged from his booth and approached.

Olivia said, I am...

Mrs. Prettyman. Good morning, m’am. Nice to see you, m’am.

M’am...that’s what they call the queen, isn’t it? and how did he...and there was such a nicely dressed girl moving a cone...and there at the top of the steps PollyPA looking just as she remembered. They were making her feel like visiting royalty!

They appeared to be as excited as Olivia, who examined herself for symptoms of trepidation as she was escorted to the lift. She was surrounded as if they were afraid that she might cut and run at the last moment. PollyPA pressed the appropriate button. They looked at each other and breathed in the perfume they exuded. The receptionist hastened back to report her preliminary findings to her friend in accounts.

She’s nice, not a bit scary.

Her friend in accounts advised caution. It does not do to make snap judgements.

Olivia experienced her first unnerving moment of the morning as she followed her companion from the lift. PollyPA! they might have been twins. They had existed in a parallel universe, been born with a year or two of each other, and they had become satellites of the same man, PollyPA ministering to his business needs and Olivia to everything else to which he felt entitled. Was she married? Did she have children? Olivia sent enquiries scurrying through her memory. Polly wore a variety of rings but was one of them a wedding ring? Olivia would examine carefully at the next opportunity. Twins! they were both beautifully groomed, dark, sharp – selected by the same man! Olivia was not pleased by the thought but PollyPA had known her husband a long time. She had come to work for him when he took over the firm, all day, everyday minus the weekends and even some of those; aggregate the hours in those years and she might have spent more time in his company than his wife. They might have shagged (there were excellent facilities); might have been lovers. He would have denied it had she asked, naturally, but he might have lied, naturally but there was no doubt that they had been a partnership and for all Olivia knew her grief might have been as profound as her own.

They should commiserate, comfort each other but for the moment there were things to be done and they would circle each other warily. Or boldly! Olivia opted for boldly, so many things had been decided but few finalised and she had to know which they were.

They waited for the doors to the CEO’s office to slide apart. Olivia was familiar with what had been her husband’s office but it was not yet her territory as it was to Polly. There was the executive chair and desk, his exercise bicycle and rowing machine, the group of leather chairs for informal meetings but the content of the drawers and cabinets – Olivia felt a moment of panic.

Olivia asked, Polly, will you stay?

Only if you’ll have me.

Suppose she had said, No bloody fear. I’m off on the next available tram!

Olivia tried to avoid making her relief too obvious and really did it matter if they had used the excellent recreational facilities from time to time? She had no intention of making enquiries, in the meantime the meeting had been scheduled for ten thirty; time to meet the big beasts. This was one of her early decisions. She would meet the board en masse rather than individually, this way she hoped to be able to assess the mood without becoming enmeshed in individual plots, schemes and/or ambitions.

A half an hour to kill, she could use it to pump PollyPA, she must have all the information that a girl could wish to know but Olivia dismissed the temptation. It was enough to be convinced that Polly was on her side, as to the others she would keep an open mind even to the extent of doing her best to discount the comments that Frank had made from time to time.

They have names...on cards...big enough to see from your end of the...and...um, by the way... What would you like me to call you, face to face that is?

Something she had overlooked. Did her husband call his personal assistant Polly?

Always.

Olivia or Livy. Olly behind my back and out of hearing.

Not only were the cards neatly propped on the table before them but she had been as good as her word, they were neatly printed and legible from a distance. They were seated as she entered; others were standing by the window; all stood or took their places as she made her way to the head of the table. She smiled. They might have thought that this was to put them at their ease; that was partly true but Frank had pulled another of his famous tricks. He was worse than his son, he had (had had) nicknames for them all. What little she knew of