When Archie Met Rosie

by Lynda Renham

  I don’t know why I can’t reach you. I’ll pop to the office. It was sent forty-five minutes ago. She’s probably there already.

  Steph twisted him around and planted a kiss on his lips. She felt his resistance and sighed.

  ‘Honestly,’ she said angrily. ‘I don’t mind telling you this is starting to get on my nerves.’

  ‘Not now Steph,’ he said, pulling on his shoes.

  ‘It’s always not now Steph’, she mimicked.

  He ignored her and opened the door.

  ‘We still haven’t talked about the Christmas holidays.’

  ‘We will. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Bloody go then,’ she said angrily pushing him out of the door and slamming it behind him. He sighed and hurried down the stairs. What on earth was up with Moira that she needed to see him so urgently?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Moira

  Moira paced up and down the foyer, searching the street outside for a sign of Harry. Carol the secretary was continually on the phone. Moira felt sure she was deliberately staying on it so that Moira wouldn’t have a chance to ask her again about Harry. How long a lunch break did Harry have for goodness’ sake?

  ‘He shouldn’t be much longer,’ Carol said as she finally came off the phone. Moira glanced at the clock on the wall.

  The door burst open, and Harry hurried in.

  ‘Sorry,’ Harry said, kissing Moira on the cheek. ‘Come into the office. I only just saw your text. I had a meeting and I turned my phone off.’

  Carol looked at her monitor. There was no meeting scheduled in his diary. She rolled her eyes and answered the ringing telephone.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Harry asked when they were alone in his office.

  Moira looked around and shook her head. The desk was a muddle of papers and empty cups. Harry’s computer could do with a good clean.

  ‘That keyboard is covered in bacteria,’ she said, pulling a face.

  Harry pulled off his jacket and sat behind his desk.

  ‘Your tie’s all askew,’ said Moira.

  He fiddled with the tie and said,

  ‘So what’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s your dad.’

  ‘Is he alright?’ Harry asked anxiously.

  ‘No,’ she said shaking her head. ‘I think he’s losing his mind.’

  Harry looked perplexed.

  ‘He’s only knocking about with his cleaner.’

  ‘You what?’ said Harry widening his eyes.

  Moira paced the room.

  ‘Rosie’s her name. She works at Waitrose and lives on that horrible Tradmore Estate in Dagenham. She’s got her foot in the door and if we’re not careful …’

  ‘Hold on Moira,’ said Harry, trying to take everything in. ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Celia, Alfred’s neighbour, saw her there cooking dinner. What a liberty Harry. What is she up to? Celia said she was right at home too.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Harry shaking his head.

  ‘Oh I do. Women like that prey on well-off widowers. She no doubt saw her opportunity the first time she went there to clean.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not what you’re thinking,’ said Harry.

  Is this what he raced back for? He fought back a sigh.

  ‘Martha Sell’s husband remarried within six months of her dying, so Celia says. No doubt she’s a gold-digger too.’

  ‘Who’s Martha Sell?’ asked Harry, confused.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ snapped Moira irritably. ‘The point is, if your dad remarries, everything will be left to some flipping cleaner. Can you imagine? Holly’s inheritance down the drain and his house … Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  She slumped into the chair at Harry’s desk.

  ‘I think you’re getting a bit carried away,’ said Harry.

  ‘You need to talk to him Harry.’

  ‘What am I supposed to say? I can’t tell him he can’t have women friends.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea Moira,’ he warned.

  ‘Honestly Harry, I don’t know where your brain is these days. That play is taking you over.’

  ‘I don’t think …’

  She stood up.

  ‘Well, I’m not letting you lose your inheritance to some lower-class scum. It’s madness. He’s lost his mind.’

  ‘Moira …’

  ‘Don’t be late tonight. We’ve got Sylvia and John from across the road coming for drinks.’

  Harry looked confused and Moira sighed heavily.

  ‘I don’t know why I talk to you.’

  She flounced from the room and Harry rubbed his eyes. He felt certain she hadn’t mentioned Sylvia and John coming for drinks. He struggled to remember who Sylvia and John were. This was getting too much. He ought to call a halt to this thing with Steph. It was messing with his head. He couldn’t really handle it. The guilt punched him every time he was with Moira. But life was fun with Steph. He got to let go a bit. Throw his tie wherever he wanted. It was relaxed and cosy at Steph’s and the sex was great, he couldn’t deny that. Sex with Moira was non-existent these days. She said it was the menopause, but surely she was too young to be starting that? Maybe she’d just gone off him. That was what he thought. He only wished she wasn’t so obsessed with Dad and that house of his. Honestly, as if Dad would have another woman. It was laughable.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rosie

  All I can think about is Archie’s little house. I try to imagine me living there. It’s like a dream.

  ‘Lilian’s off,’ Brian greets me as I walk into the staff room. ‘We’ve also got two on holiday.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  ‘It’s going to be mad. What with Christmas,’ he moans.

  ‘Christmas is weeks away,’ I say. ‘People won’t be buying Christmas food yet.’

  ‘That’s what you’d think,’ he says with a wink. ‘But I know Waitrose shoppers.’

  ‘Right,’ I say.

  You can’t argue with our manager Brian. I don’t have the energy anyway, even if I wanted to.

  ‘You’ll be on the till for the whole shift,’ he says.

  I don’t mind being on the till. At least I get to sit down. Mind you, you do get pins and needles in your bum after a while. I glance slyly at the holiday chart. Brian sees me, and a look of horror crosses his face.

  ‘You’re not thinking this side of Christmas?’ he says.

  His cheek begins to twitch.

  ‘More like Christmas week,’ I say.

  ‘What!’ he explodes ‘You should have booked that months ago.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘It’s not possible,’ he says, a tone of finality in his voice.

  ‘I only want …’

  ‘No, you’ve left it too late.’

  This is worse than being at school.

  ‘It’s just …’

  ‘It can’t be entertained. If you take time off it will have to be unpaid. I’ll need to get cover.’

  He looks at his watch.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be on the shop floor?’

  That went well didn’t it? I told Archie it would be difficult to get time off over Christmas especially at this short notice.

  ‘I can’t afford to lose my job,’ I’d told him.

  ‘They can’t sack you if you’re off sick,’ he’d said.

  ‘Archie, I can’t lie.’

  But it’s very tempting. Paris at Christmas … The only thing that had stopped me from booking it was the thought of going on my own. I didn’t fancy that much. I could go sick, couldn’t I? People do it all the time don’t they? I bet Lilian isn’t really sick. I know she wanted to go to the Christmas market in Bath. I bet that’s where she is right now. Living it up in Bath while a knackered me tries to cover her shift as well as my own. I hope she brings me back something nice from Bath. I bet she doesn’t. I’d like to go to Bath.

  I settle myself
behind the till and smile at the next customer. You have to keep a smile pasted on your face. They insist on that. It can be hard sometimes, especially when you get the stroppy cows who talk like they have a plum in their mouth. You often can’t see their nose because it’s so high in the air,

  ‘How’s your day today?’ I ask the blonde, harassed mum. I’d like to know how she can afford to shop here. You’d never get me shopping here, not even if I had pots of money. You can get the same stuff in Lidl for half the price. Why pay more? I don’t care about the smiling cashier. They can throw the stuff at me if they like. As long as it’s cheap I couldn’t care less.

  ‘Bloody awful,’ says the blonde. ‘If I’d known what I know now I’d never have had kids.’

  She’s not your standard Waitrose customer, and then I see, behind her in the queue, another, so not standard Waitrose customer. Matt Fisher. I can’t believe my eyes. He’s looking at me over his packet of black peppered mackerel fillets.

  ‘Conor, come away from there,’ screeches the blonde.

  I can’t have a run in with Matt Fisher, not in Waitrose.

  ‘Do you want to go to the next till,’ Delia says, approaching him.

  She’s got the worst job, has Delia. Standing around and directing people to tills. I pray Matt Fisher will go to the other till but of course he doesn’t. It’s me he wants and not black peppered mackerel. The mackerel is just a ploy.

  ‘I’m ‘appy ‘ere thanks very much,’ says Matt, winking at me. It doesn’t reassure me in the least.

  ‘Thanks,’ says the blonde before screeching to Conor.

  Matt Fisher approaches and slaps his mackerel on to the counter.

  ‘Alright?’ he asks.

  I scan the mackerel and hand it back.

  ‘Four pounds twenty,’ I say in my best cheerful Waitrose voice. He hands me a five-pound note and then leans forward.

  ‘You and me have got some unfinished business,’ he hisses.

  ‘Anything else I can help you with? Stamps for your Christmas cards, perhaps?’ I say.

  ‘You owe me a fair bit of dosh.’

  ‘Nothing else then,’ I say, wishing he’d push off.

  ‘What time do you knock off ‘ere? I don’t want to be waiting outside your flat all evening, now do I?’

  I gasp. It’s not the thought of Matt Fisher waiting outside my flat all evening but more the sight of Moira, Archie’s daughter-in-law. She’s fidgeting angrily behind Matt Fisher. She looks about to explode.

  ‘Would you like to go to the next till,’ offers Delia.

  ‘No, I would not,’ snaps Moira.

  Delia keeps the smile pasted on her face. I don’t mind telling you I’m having trouble with mine. The tedious Christmas music we’ve had to listen to for the past few weeks isn’t helping much either.

  ‘I’m on a late shift,’ I say.

  ‘That tells me bugger all,’ retorts Matt Fisher.

  ‘Have you finished?’ butts in Moira.

  ‘No, we’ve got some unfinished business, haven’t we?’ he says looking at me.

  ‘I …’

  I see Karen, the supervisor squeezing her way through the queue.

  ‘Everything okay here, Rosie?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say.

  Can you believe this? Five thousand, that’s all I won. It’s not even newsworthy is it? I tell you, I’m beginning to think if I could give it back, I would. I blame Frank. What sensible bugger walks in front of a Domino’s Pizza van? If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be having this aggro three weeks before Christmas with Matt Fisher, or Moira, come to that. I’m shattered, and it is hours before I get a tea break.

  Matt wags his finger in front of my face.

  ‘We’ll discuss this later,’ he says, before walking away. I let out a sigh. I don’t think we will. I’ll go round to our Sam’s. I’ll have a bit of tea there and then get Sam to take me home. I only wish I could kill Frank. It might make me feel a bit better. As it is he took the easy way out, the coward that he was. It wouldn’t surprise me if he deliberately walked in front of that van.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, forcing a smile for Moira.

  Crikey, she doesn’t look too happy either. This isn’t my day is it?

  ‘What do you think you’re up to?’ she hisses, plonking a packet of pork pies onto the counter.

  I never had Moira down for the pork pie kind. It just goes to show doesn’t it?

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t play the innocent with me. I know all about your type.’

  ‘Everything okay?’ smiles Karen.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say.

  Everything is far from okay.

  ‘Anything else madam?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re after his money, aren’t you?’

  If Moira only knew how much I don’t want money. It’s a curse. It really is.

  ‘Please come to the other till,’ pleads Delia to the customers behind Moira.

  ‘Whose money are we talking about?’

  ‘Alfred’s, of course, who do you think we’re talking about? You’re just his cleaner. You should know your place.’

  Karen is glaring at me. I pull my eyes from hers and turn back to Moira.

  ‘I really can’t discuss this with you now. I’m at work and …’

  ‘You need to back off. You’re way out of your league. He’s not interested in you. I know your type, preying on lonely widowers. Well, you hadn’t bargained on me, had you?’

  She wags her finger in my face. I wish she’d keep her voice down.

  ‘I’ll be getting another cleaner for Dad so …’

  ‘Now hang on …’ I begin.

  ‘Is everything alright madam?’ asks Karen approaching us. She’s smiling warmly. ‘Anything I can help with?’

  ‘It’s a personal matter,’ snaps Moira.

  ‘Right, I see,’ says Karen in a very irritating ‘I understand’ kind of voice. Of course, she doesn’t understand at all.

  ‘Shall I get someone to take over?’ Karen asks, looking at me.

  ‘No, really …’

  ‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say. We won’t need you to come next week. I’ll let the agency know,’ says Moira before striding briskly from the store.

  ‘Sod it,’ I mutter.

  ‘Not in front of the customers please,’ reprimands Karen.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Yes, right. We can discuss this later.’

  ‘Yes of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was coming in.’

  ‘Right, let’s get on then, shall we. Would you like to come to the till,’ she says gesturing to the customers.

  I just want to cry. How could Moira be so patronising? Just because I clean houses and work in Waitrose doesn’t mean I’m nothing. She spoke to me like I was just a piece of dirt she’d found on her shoe. Archie would have been appalled. I can’t tell Archie. It’s too embarrassing. What gives people the right? I know I don’t have much and I live on the Tradmore Estate, but I still have feelings. How could she think that of me? That the only reason I’m working for Archie is because I hope to gain his confidence and get his money? I couldn’t tell her we liked to discuss books and things. She probably thinks I can’t even read, let alone enjoy Thomas Hardy. I bet she doesn’t read classics. Sod them, sod all of them. Let her find a cleaner. I can’t imagine Archie liking that much. Still it’s not my business. All the same, I will miss working for Archie. I scan the next customer’s shopping, apologise for the delay and carry on as normal. Well, that’s life isn’t it? You can’t shut up shop every time someone is rude to you, can you? But life does suck sometimes.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Alfred

  Matt Fisher thinks he’s something these days.

  ‘Meet me at the Greek place in Romford,’ he’d said on the phone. It wasn’t difficult to get his number. I just put the word around that I needed a loan and the next thing I knew I had Matt Fisher’s details.

  I hate Romford any time of year
but right now, with Christmas just around the corner it’s bedlam. At least I can park the car for free. That helps doesn’t it? Except there’s a mile-long tailback where everyone else is trying to get into the same car park. Christmas, who’d have it? It’s just people spending money they don’t have on presents nobody wants. Moira and Harry love it. They’re big on Christmas. That’s when the whole shoebox thing comes into its own. I don’t get it. I really don’t. Still it makes Harry and Moira feel better and they can eat their huge Christmas dinner without any guilt.

  ‘We sent off our shoeboxes,’ they’d say in that condescending manner they have.

  Finally I’m driving into the car park. A parking attendant waves me forward and points to the lane he wants me to go into. Anyone would think I was blind. I know how to get into a car park. I’ve done it plenty of times without his help. I don’t understand why we have to have someone guide us into car parks at Christmas time. The council no doubt thinks we lose all sense at Christmas after spending all that money, and if we don’t have guidance we’d drive into walls. He’s wearing a silly Christmas hat too. What self-respecting man wears a Christmas hat in public? I won’t even wear a paper hat on Christmas Day, no matter how much I’m nagged. The guy motions for me to go into the right-hand lane so I deliberately go into the left hand one. I know how to get into a car park. He’ll be getting my ticket for me next. Cath used to say I was too intolerant. She was probably right.

  There’s Christmas music playing everywhere and more silly people in stupid hats or wearing reindeer antlers. They shake charity boxes and wish me a Merry Christmas. If I want to give to a charity, I’ll phone them, get an address and then send a cheque. I’m not going to drop a few bob into a tin for a charity I’ve never heard of. What’s the point of that?

  I finally make it to the street where Fisher had said the Greek restaurant was. I hope that’s not crowded too. I open the door, grateful for the warmth.

  ‘Have you booked sir?’ asked a flustered waiter looking at a clipboard. ‘Only we …’

  ‘I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Over ‘ere,’ yells a voice.

  I turn to see Fisher. He’s lording it up at the table by the window. He lifts a wine glass in salute.