Wickham Hall, Part 2 by Cathy Bramley Page A

without them (which incidentally made me admire all three of them a little bit more). So ‘head of security’ was a nominal title: all the major events such as this one had external contractors looking after the big stuff, but Jim still liked to make himself useful.
    â€˜Hello, Jim! Quite a queue now,’ I said, taking in the crowd of people waiting to enter. It stretched along the makeshift wooden path and down towards the car park.
    â€˜It’s the weather, love,’ he said, lifting up his baseball cap to wipe his forehead. ‘Brings ’em out in droves. We could be in for record visitor numbers, I reckon.’
    â€˜I hope so, but I’m guessing you’re waiting for one particular visitor.’
    He held his hands up and chuckled. ‘Guilty as charged.’
    I smiled, feeling my body relax in his company as usual. Jim was one of my favourite people at Wickham Hall and I often found myself seeking his advice. He knew so much about the place: where the secret doors were in the hall – the ones that weren’t revealed to the public – what time the café was likely to have spare cake going begging, and last week he’d shown me a clearing in the woods where a litter of fox cubs liked to come and play, which was one of the most enchanting things I’d ever witnessed. I’d found out that Jim had bought three signed copies of Suzanna Merryweather’s book: one for himself and two as Christmas presents. ‘Who wouldn’t want to find Suzanna in your Christmas stocking?’ he’d chortled.
    â€˜You don’t mind if I hang around for her autograph, do you?’ he asked sheepishly, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. ‘I’ve come prepared.’
    â€˜Of course not!’ I grinned, looping my arm through his. ‘Come on, let’s walk down to the road; she’ll be here soon.’
    We pushed our way through the crowd while he recalled the time he’d seen Dolly Parton at the airport in 1977. He hadn’t had any paper for her to sign except for his boarding pass, so she autographed it but he had to surrender it to the cabin crew on the aeroplane and had kicked himself ever since. Suddenly we heard a commotion ahead of us and a little dog appeared through a sea of legs at our feet.
    â€˜Oh dear.’ Jim tutted. ‘A lost dog. We always get one or two who escape their lead.’
    The little dog, a white and brown Jack Russell, jumped up at Jim and wagged its tail.
    I bent down to stroke it and read the engraved bone in its leather collar. ‘He’s called Lucky. Any sign of the owners?’
    Jim and I scanned the people around us, but no one came forward.
    â€˜Jim, can you take him to the festival office for me?’ I pleaded. ‘Sheila can put an announcement out over the PA system. And get him some water. I daren’t go in case I miss—’
    We both stared as a black cab pulled up as close to the festival entrance as it could get.
    â€˜That’s Suzanna Merryweather,’ I said.
    Jim’s face lifted and then fell and he swallowed. ‘Of course, I’ll take the dog,’ he said stoically. ‘You go and meet Suzanna; I’ll sort this out.’
    My heart twanged for him; I couldn’t possibly deprive him of his chance to meet his idol. Especially not after that Dolly Parton story.
    I scooped up the dog under one arm, still clutching my clipboard under the other.
    â€˜Come on, we’ll both go and meet Suzanna. Lucky can come too. Then we’ll all go to the office together. That way you still get your autograph.’
    â€˜Right you are!’ Jim punched the air.
    We scurried back up the path with Lucky and made it to the taxi just as Suzanna Merryweather alighted from the rear door.
    â€˜Hello, Suzanna!’ I beamed, juggling my assorted cargo as I attempted to shake her hand. ‘Welcome to Wickham Hall.’
    She was dressed simply in a white cotton