by Alex Brown
There had been talk of retirement; of closing down the House of Haberdashery; of putting her feet up and going ‘into a home’. Hettie’s nephew, her brother Harold’s son and last of the Honey family line, was all for it. On one of his rare visits, on the pretext of seeing how she was, he’d told Hettie he was concerned about her living on her own, that she needed the rest and that ‘it’s not like you’ve got that many customers these days, is it?’ He said he’d make sure she had her own bedroom or at the very least, a twin sharer. ‘And besides, it might be nice for her to have the company of people her own age.’ He’d put forward a strong case and had already contacted the council to enquire about a suitable place. But Hettie wasn’t losing her marbles and she knew that what he was really after was to bulldoze her beloved home – the oast house surrounded by a meadow of pretty wild flowers, and the place where she grew up. There’s her cosy bedroom suite, set upstairs in the roundel with its magnificent view of the valley, the lovely farmhouse kitchen with the walk-in pantry, the sunroom, the snug – it’s got the lot, and that’s on top of all her memories wrapped within its circular walls. Not to mention her beloved little shop, right next door, crammed full of all her favourite knitting and needlecraft goodies.
Then he’d be able to get his hands on the land for one of his building projects. He’d told her all about the one with ample parking and plastic windows that his company had created in the town where he lived, over fifty miles away. Seventeen months it had taken, he’d said, to fight all the objections from the local residents’ association, and he had puffed on about it for the entire hour of that tedious visit. But Hettie isn’t ready to be written off; to be carted away to an old people’s home like a nag to a glue factory, not when there is plenty of life still left in her sprightly body. Besides, ‘going into a home’ would mean leaving Tindledale behind, and Hettie knows more than anything that this is where her heart belongs. It always has, even when she’d had the chance of a different life, far, far away.
Three weeks until Christmas …
I stare at the radio mounted in the dashboard of my clapped-out old Clio as I negotiate a particularly icy corner off Lewisham High Road. Jennifer Ford! Did the London FM newsreader guy just say Jennifer Ford had absconded? I wasn’t really paying attention, but I know that name. F-O-R-D, the woman had even spelled it out for me, as in Harrison Ford, that’s what Jennifer had said. It was about a month ago, and I had shuddered, which is hardly surprising given my monumentally embarrassing showdown at the altar of my own Star Wars-themed wedding just six months previously. I’m still cringing. 4 May it was, obviously. Luke, my ex – and for the record, a massive tool, I know that now, it’s just a shame I didn’t know it then – anyway, he thought it would be a brilliant idea to have ‘May the fourth be with you’ in big swirly gold lettering on the wedding invites. He was literally leaping over the proverbial moon when we managed to secure the date with the church. So why then didn’t he turn up?
Jilted at the altar! That’s me. I’m the woman none of us ever wants to be. Stood there in a floaty neck-to-toe white hooded dress, complete with Princess Leia buns, having opted for the pin-on ones after my unruly red curls had refused to get involved, the realisation dawning that he wasn’t actually going to turn up. A no-show. And that’s when I knew, really knew, what had been going on, because Sasha, my identical twin sister and far more glamorous than me – even her name is bursting with va-va-voom compared to my Sybil – wasn’t there either. To be honest, I think I had known, deep down, in the weeks and months leading up to the wedding that something wasn’t quite right. But I had chosen to ignore it – or perhaps that’s the whole purpose of hindsight: its job is to protect you, to let you be obliviously happy for just a while longer before the reality swoops in to deal a cruel, mean blow.
I inhale sharply and let out a long breath, which forms a miniature Australia-shaped mist on the windscreen. Sasha, golden and gregarious, the pony club princess to quirky and creative me, hadn’t wanted to be a bridesmaid, citing a desire for not wanting to steal the limelight away from me on my big day. Ha! Instead she stole my husband-to-be. Turns out Luke had always had a bit of a twin fantasy thing going on in his head and had decided to make it a reality – they had been having a secret ‘thing’ for ages. I don’t know all the details, I really don’t want to, and I haven’t spoken to either of them since …
So, after wrenching the Princess Leia buns from my head, I had flung them into the crowd and run from the church, narrowly managing to avoid body slamming into a late-arriving, over-furry Chewbacca as I burst out through the doors and into the sanctuary of the waiting tour bus. Yes, another one of Luke’s brilliant ideas, a big bastard 48-seater with STAR WARS: May the fourth be with you, love Sybs and Luke emblazoned down both sides for the whole world – well, the greyest part of London and beyond at least – to witness my humiliation. And I’ll never forget the look on my parents’ faces: disappointment mixed with embarrassment. I had let them down in front of all their friends. Even the flower girls were crying because the party was over before it had even started and I had promised them the DJ would do a special One Direction medley during the disco. I felt like an utter failure! And still do, a lot, to be honest.
I park the Clio and give the door an extra-hard slam with the full force of my left Converse trainer before picking my way through the dirt-stained leftovers from this morning’s sleet storm and making my way down the path to my basement flat, deftly sidestepping the cracked paving slabs and trying really hard to ignore the mounting swirl of unease in my stomach. Maybe I’d misheard the newsreader. Let’s hope so, because the Jennifer Ford I’d dealt with at work wouldn’t take £42,000 in housing benefit wrongly credited to her bank account and blow it on a crazeee trolley dash around Westfield shopping centre, and then be daft enough to post the pics of the shopping hauls across her multiple social media channels, would she? No! Of course she wouldn’t. Don’t be ridiculous, I tell myself, as I negotiate the crumbly old steps, push the key into the front door, retrieve the post from the mat and give Basil, my bonkers black Scottie dog, a stroke as he dashes to greet me with an expectant time-for-dinner look on his whiskery face.
It’s Thursday evening and I’ve just finished work at the housing department of the local council office. I flick the switch to illuminate the miniature Christmas tree on my hall table and read the note from the dog sitter.
Basil had a lovely time today. Went for a run around the park followed by a long snoring snooze on my sofa lol. Sorry, I know you’re trying to train him to keep off the furniture but he’s just too cute, I couldn’t resist a cuddle during Judge Judy. I’ll try harder tomorrow.
Love, Pops xxx
Ah, Poppy is a godsend and I don’t know what I’d do without her. After Luke left (he used to take Basil to work in his electrician’s van) I very nearly had to rehome Basil, because I couldn’t face leaving him on his own all day. Then Poppy moved in upstairs and she loves dogs but can’t have one as she works nights as an administrator at one of the big law firms in the City, so she jumped at the chance to look after Basil when I’m at work.
I press the button on the landline phone’s answer machine – I actually ventured out last night with a few friends, a bit of a rarity since the 4 May showdown, and then didn’t have time to listen to my messages this morning. We’d gone to a Zumba class – so not my thing. My backside feels as if it’s been pummelled by a trillion pygmy goat hoofs, and I really must get a new mobile, although it’s been rather liberating being without one: no sneaking a peek at Luke’s Facebook whenever the fancy takes me, or sending drunken texts only to agonise over them the following morning. I had hurled my old phone from the window of the Star Wars’ bus somewhere on the M4 on the way back to my parents’ bungalow in Staines when Sasha had called to ‘apologise’ with promises of ‘making it up to me’ and explanations of it ‘just happened’, all of the clichés rolled into one big ball of crushing heartbreak.
In keeping with tradition,
I had stayed with Mum and Dad the night before the wedding and, after gathering up Basil and my special ‘going away’ clothes, I’d beaten a rapid retreat back here to my flat, called a locksmith, and had the Yale lock changed. At least Luke had had the good grace to have already cleared his gear out before I got home, saving me the job of dumping it all in next door’s skip. Although he did forget to cancel his Star Wars magazine subscription, so I store them under the kitchen sink to use when Basil sicks up grass, which I have to say is really rather satisfying. Especially the time the magazine came with a free Luke Skywalker plastic figurine: Basil and I played fetch with it until he’d had enough, bit Luke’s head off, chewed up his body and spat it out in disgust. High five, Basil!
After deleting all of Sasha’s latest apology messages without listening to them – I can always tell them apart; there’s a delay, then a bit of background noise, muffled voices (her and Luke, I presume), lots of shushing followed by the sound of her clearing her throat in preparation for yet another one of her convoluted ‘explanations’ – there’s a message from Mum.
‘Sybil. How are you, darling? Just checking to see if you’re still alive, only we haven’t heard from you for a couple of days …’ cue a short, nervous laugh, ‘and Dad was wondering if you’d like to join us for a pre-Christmas lunch soon. Help us all to really get into the festive spirit before we board the Majestic for the Christmas break. Are you sure you can’t come too? I think they still have a few cabins left, inside lower deck ones only, mind you.’ Her voice drops, just in case the neighbours are listening, I guess. Mum is very Hyacinth Bucket when it comes to keeping up appearances. ‘But still, leftovers are better than nothing, dear, and beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?’ I breathe in before exhaling a looooong calming breath, wondering when exactly it was that I became a ‘beggar’. ‘Won’t you be very lonely on your own?’ ‘What about your turkey dinner with all the trimmings?’ Cue a short silence before she changes tack. ‘We could invite Gloria from next door to lunch, the one with the handsome son who is a barrister with his own chamber! Fancy that.’ She pauses momentarily to draw breath. ‘And such a lovely fellow! Wouldn’t it be marvellous if he—’
I press the button to skip to the next message. I know she means well, but I really don’t want to spend Christmas on a cruise ship packed full of people twice my age and beyond, while Mum tries to fix me up with a ‘leftover’ man or, worse still, Ian, the barrister, named after Ian Botham, the cricketer, but with a face like a moon landing, all craters and scars. We went to the same school and, a fellow horse lover, he dated Sasha for a while during sixth form and they rode together and showed off together in all the gymkhanas. After the end-of-year disco, he got hammered and then lunged at me for a snog, thinking I was Sasha. If that wasn’t bad enough, he says things like ‘giddy up’ in a ridiculously plummy voice instead of ‘hello’ like everyone else, which is fine if you’re astride a stallion and starring in a period drama or whatever, but he isn’t, and therefore doesn’t sound cool, just plain daft.
I unwind my most recently completed project from my neck, an extra-long, super-chunky knitted scarf with a tassel trim in Kermit green, and loop it over the banister before moving on to the next message.
‘Sybs, babe, it’s me, Cher. Listen, you have to see this new pub I’ve landed.’ Ah, she’s there already. Last time we spoke Cher was still waiting to hear from the brewery about where they wanted to send her next. ‘It’s called the Duck & Puddle and gorgeous is a massive understatement. The village is just like something out of The Darling Buds of May and the locals – well, where have you ever heard of someone welcoming you with a whole hog to roast as a housewarming present? Tindledale, that’s where! No joke. Cooper, he’s the village butcher, came in yesterday with the pig flung over his shoulder, slapped it on the bar and said, “There you go, love! I’ll send the lad over later to set it up on the spit roaster for you.” So you’d better visit soon as I now have hog roast baps coming out of my ears. Bring Basil too, I know he’s partial to pork.’ She laughs warmly while I remember the time Basil stole a whole stuffed pork belly joint, and I had only turned my back for a few minutes to lay the table for our Sunday lunch. ‘Ooh, better go, babe, nearly last orders.’ And the message fades to the sound of very jolly pub banter with Cher bellowing, ‘Time to drink up, ladies and gents’ over the ding-a-ling of a ringing hand bell.
I smile. Cher, short for Cheryl, is my oldest and dearest friend. She and I first met at Brownies after her publican parents took over the local pub, ‘a step up’ they had said, having come from a proper boozer in London’s East End. By the end of Girl Guides, we were inseparable. Sasha was never keen on going, much preferring the Pony Club, but I loved it – all those craft badges to collect, just my kind of thing. Cher and I grew up together in the Home Counties town of Staines, until she moved away and her parents ran a number of pubs up North before retiring to the Lake District. Cher and I have always kept in touch and I’ve stayed with her and her husband, Clive, in many of the pubs she’s managed over the years. The last one was in the pretty seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea. The Hook, Line and Sinker it was called, and she did such a good job with it that the brewery asked her to go and rejuvenate this new one. Clive is a chef, so he spends most of his time in the kitchen or standing out the back by the industrial wheelie bins with a fag on the go, putting the world to rights with whichever of the locals are his new best drinking buddies.
I take off my coat and saunter through to the kitchen. After dumping my bag on the counter, I flick on the kettle before reaching up to the top shelf of the cupboard to retrieve the biscuit tin, stashed up high in a vague attempt to curtail my sugar addiction, but it never seems to work. Well, it did for a bit, when I had a wedding to get ready for, but not now. I choose a Jammie Dodger and bite into its gooey sweet loveliness before firing up my laptop and typing Jennifer Ford absconded in to Google.
The kettle boils so I swiftly make a mug of Wispa hot chocolate and it’s just reaching the crackly, popping stage of the stirring process when an article posted just a few hours ago appears on the screen.
A young mum who went on a spending spree after a bungling council official accidentally deposited £42,000 in her bank account has disappeared. Police are trying to trace Jennifer Ford, who was last seen boarding a plane to Las Vegas dressed in designer gear including £350 Gucci shades and seven-inch Louboutin stacked heels.
With sweaty palms, I swig the hot chocolate, scalding the roof of my mouth in the process. Ouch! I scroll down further. And there she is. Jennifer Ford. My mouth drains of saliva. It’s her. Definitely her. The woman whose claim I processed. Even with her new, superimposed, here’s-what-she-might-look-like-now picture, complete with long, butter-blonde hair extensions, which the article then details were acquired from a ‘top salon in London’s swanky West End, mainly frequented by celebrities’. Oh good-o, I shall rest easy armed with this important piece of trivia. Not. But part of me is thinking: good on you, Jennifer, I’m not sure I could resist such an enormous windfall, but then … what about the consequences? Surely there are laws about spending money that isn’t yours, even if it has been paid into your very own bank account? I gulp, and try to ignore the hammering of my heart as I speed-read on.
A council spokesman has vowed to conduct a full investigation to ensure the bungling employee is identified and reprimanded for irresponsibly giving away such a huge sum of taxpayer’s money.
And there, right in the middle of my laptop screen, is a picture of my boss, Mr Banerjee, with his arms crossed and a furious look on his face. He’s even wearing his serious black turban, and not his usual, colourful orange everyday one.
A wave of nausea crashes right through me and I actually think I might be sick. The kitchen sways slightly so I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself. What am I going to do? This has to be the cock-up to end all cock-ups, and I should know – I’ve had a few, and that’s not including the wedding fiasco. Since 4 May I’ve been rep
rimanded several times at work by Gina, the team leader, mainly for trawling the internet looking at knitting websites as a way to relieve the tedium of my boring job. The plan had been for me to marry Luke and then work from home – it was even his idea – because, he said, it made sense if we were to start a family. I’d be self-employed; I’d get to embrace my passion for knitting and needlecraft and see if I could make a proper go of it. I would take orders online at first and then, if it took off, I’d look for a shop, somewhere on-trend – like nappy valley, aka Clapham, where there are loads of people who love to create one-off masterpieces.
I had it all mapped out. But that dream has gone now, along with my heart, which shattered into a trillion tiny fragments on that day in the church. I swallow the last of the hot chocolate in an attempt to shake off the pity party for one and delve into my bag to retrieve my knitting. I love making things – knitting, needlecraft, quilting, crocheting and patchwork – when dark thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I’ll just finish this tea cosy. Yes, it will calm me down while I come up with a plan of action to get myself out of this latest cock-up, because I have a horrible, sinking feeling that I’m the bungling employee. And if I am, then I could very well be facing the sack right before Christmas, because there are only so many warnings one can have before it just gets ridiculous. Not that I transfer the actual payments into the claimants’ bank accounts; no, somebody else does that part of the process, for security apparently, which is a bit ironic. I process the claims, and calculate the payment amount due but with my mind not really being on the job recently, perhaps I did inadvertently add on a couple of extra zeros. It could happen. So easily!