Wickham Hall, Part 2 Read Free Page B

looked as though he was going to get on with something.
    He flicked a sideways grin at me. ‘Now stop chatting please, I’ve got loads to do.’
    â€˜Me chatting? Oh, you are so irri—’
    â€˜Irresistible?’ he offered, searching through his desk without looking up.
    â€˜No,’ I stuttered, ‘Irri—’
    â€˜Oh, Holly,’ he looked at me this time, pulling a comical sad face, ‘don’t say irresponsible, please, look how hard I—’
    â€˜Irritating,’ I tutted.
    He mimed zipping his own mouth and I felt my own mouth lifting in a smile. A bit irritating, perhaps, but in an irresistible way.
    Half an hour later I’d given up all pretence of trying to work. Ben was simply too distracting to work with. Not because he pursed his full lips when he was concentrating or because the sun was casting shadows across his face in the afternoon light or because there was a lively citrusy scent that got stronger every time he came near me, but because he seemed to be having problems doing . . . whatever it was he was doing and had taken to grumbling to himself, tutting and slamming the phone down.
    â€˜Benedict,’ I said, using his full name for once. I closed the lid of my laptop to give him my undivided attention. ‘What is it you’re trying to do, exactly?’
    His chin was propped up in his hand and he was drumming his fingers on an empty notepad.
    â€˜I thought as all the team were doing something special for my parents’ thirtieth year I should contribute too.’
    â€˜Good idea,’ I said, pushing myself up and heading over to the coffee maker. ‘Coffee?’
    â€˜Please,’ he said, stretching his arms above his head. ‘It might perk me up.’
    I spooned fresh coffee into the filter and turned the machine on.
    â€˜I thought of doing a sort of photographic “retrospective”: a look back at thirty years of the festival. I thought we could mount it as a display in one of the marquees.’
    â€˜Nice idea,’ I said, ‘we haven’t really got anything arty going on. So what’s the problem?’
    I left the coffee to gurgle and splutter away, perched on my desk and crossed my ankles.
    â€˜We employed a professional photographer from 1990, so I’m OK from then on; I can get the pictures from Sheila, she says she’s got them all on CD. It’s the first six years I’m struggling with.’
    â€˜What about old Summer Festival programmes? There must have been a few on that shelf you cleared out this morning.’ My lips twitched. ‘In amongst the stuff you decided we didn’t need.’
    Ben shot me a look with a hint of cheeky grin. ‘Sorry to disappoint, but they were all too new. What I really need to do is find some old copies of the
Wickham and Hoxley News
. That was the local newspaper that covered the festival every year until it was bought out by a bigger regional outfit. And when I phoned and asked them about their archives, they said they didn’t have any.’
    I nodded. ‘I remember. They used to cover all our school events, too. But you want actual pictures, don’t you, and not press cuttings?’
    Ben pushed back his chair and lifted his feet up onto the desk.
    â€˜If I can track down the newspaper’s photographer, he or she will probably have the original negatives.’ He raked a hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘But how on earth am I supposed to find copies of an out-of-print newspaper from thirty years ago?
    The skin at the back of my neck began to prickle. How indeed?
    â€˜Here you are,’ I said, putting a cup of coffee in front of him. I took a deep breath. ‘Now, I’ll do you a deal: if you promise to let me get on with some work, in peace, for the next hour I’ll see if I can find you some old copies of that newspaper.’
    â€˜Really, Miss Swift?’ said Ben, brightening up. ‘In that