Secrets and Scandals in Little Woodford

by Catherine Jones

‘You’ll be fine. It’s got to happen one day.’ She put the heavy crate down on the bar with an ‘oof’.

  ‘I suppose.’ Bex put her crate down on the floor.

  ‘But I’d better warn you, he’s in a mood because we had a late booking for the function room tonight and they want a finger buffet for fifteen. He’s not a happy chappy – in fact he’s in a foul mood.’

  Great, thought Bex. She hoped she wouldn’t do anything to make it worse.

  Belinda smiled. ‘But this isn’t getting the bottling up done. While I put this lot on the shelves can you bring up a crate of Coronas, please?’

  The pair worked until the shelves were full.

  ‘Right,’ said Belinda. ‘I’m off out, so I’ll leave you to open up,’ she glanced at the pub clock, ‘in about five minutes. Good luck.’

  ‘I am hoping I’m going to rely on skill and training rather than luck,’ responded Bex.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Five minutes after the door was unbolted Harry and Alf came in for their daily pint – or two – of beer. Bex poured their drinks, operated the till and handed over their change all without a hitch. And then a party of around ten men barrelled in, none of whom she recognised. The noise level in the pub went through the roof and Harry and Alf looked grumpy at this invasion of strangers into their pub.

  Bex battled as best she could making gin and tonics, pouring pints and glasses of wine and then the Guinness ran out. Flustered, she ran into the kitchen and saw that Miles seemed to be up to his proverbial ears in pastry, mixing bowls and saucepans.

  ‘Hi, Miles, I need a hand to change a barrel.’

  ‘Which one?’ he said, as he hauled a tray of vol-au-vent cases out of the oven.

  ‘The Guinness.’

  ‘Haven’t you learned how yet?’ He sounded exasperated as he put the hot tray down on the counter and picked up another of uncooked sausage rolls. He checked the oven temperature, adjusted it and slammed them in.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  Bex stood back to allow him out of the door and returned to her customers. As he lifted the bar flap she thought she heard him mutter, ‘For God’s sake,’ as he went.

  She felt a bit aggrieved. It was hardly her fault that that was a skill she had yet to be taught, nor that Belinda had left her on her own when Miles was so obviously stretched. She took the money then promised to bring the two missing pints of Guinness over in a minute.

  ‘It’s sorted,’ said Miles appearing at the top of the cellar stairs.

  ‘Thanks.’ She was starting to feel out of her depth again as a couple more customers came in and waited for their turn to be served. As she was about to deal with the missing drinks from the original order, another group of people came in.

  She stuck her head around the kitchen door.

  ‘Miles? I need a hand.’

  ‘Again?’ he snapped.

  Bex almost had a go at him back but she decided that it might be better not to antagonise him further. Besides, she was too busy, even with him helping out, to waste breath on sticking up for herself. In a few minutes things began to get under control and the queue was dealt with.

  ‘Can I order some food?’ said one of the men from the big group.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Best I get back to the kitchen,’ said Miles. ‘And let’s hope the food for tonight’s not ruined.’

  Bex, ignoring the inference that, if it was, it would be down to her, grabbed her pad and the businessman began to rattle off the order.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said as she struggled to write the order down as fast as it was being given. ‘So that’s three tuna on brown, one with no cucumber, two pizzas, one toasted BLT—’

  ‘Two toasted BLTs,’ she was corrected.

  ‘—two BLTs.’

  ‘One on brown.’

  ‘One on brown, a soup of the day and a pasty.’

  ‘Yes.’ The guy sounded slightly shirty. ‘And if you could make it snappy – we’ve got to be somewhere else in about thirty minutes.’

  ‘We’ll do our best.’

  ‘Good.’

  She began to enter the food order into the till but made a mistake and had to start again. The guy on the other side of the bar sighed heavily. Finally she got the entries all correct. ‘That’s fifty-three pounds and forty eight pence.’

  The man handed over a credit card and Bex tapped the buttons. While she waited for the machine to connect to the bank she popped the order into the kitchen.

  ‘The group says they’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Then they should have gone to a McDonald’s,’ said Miles pulling a chopping board towards him and getting some bacon on the griddle.

  Bex zipped back to the bar where the man was drumming his fingers on the bar.

  She got him to enter his PIN, finished the transaction, and then handed him the receipt.

  ‘The chef says he’ll be as quick as he can.’ She thought that was more diplomatic than repeating what Miles had actually said.

  The number of customers in the pub continued to grow but, with Miles busy cooking, Bex had to rely on her own skills, which she soon discovered weren’t that good when she was under pressure. Pouring drinks, ferrying food, clearing tables and taking money seemed so much harder to combine now she was pushed and the more flustered she got the worse it became.

  She dashed into the kitchen in response to the little light that flashed by the till which was Miles’s signal that another food order was ready.

  ‘Two pizzas,’ he said.

  She picked up the plates and turned round and one of the pizzas flew off the plate like a frisbee and landed, right-way up, on the floor.

  ‘Shit,’ groaned Bex.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

  Bex felt ridiculously close to tears.

  ‘At least you didn’t do it in front of the punters,’ said Miles. He dashed over and swished it up, brushed off the underside and dumped it on the plate.

  ‘Miles!’

  ‘They’ll never know,’ he said. ‘Go on – before it gets cold.’

  Bex walked back into the bar and hoped she didn’t look guilty. She’d dropped the pizza and she was about to serve it to a total stranger. Supposing he got ill?

  She pushed the thought from her brain and put the plates on the tables. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’

  ‘And the quiche?’ said shirty-man.

  ‘What quiche?’

  ‘We ordered a quiche.’

  They hadn’t. She could swear blind they hadn’t.

  ‘I’ll check with the kitchen.’

  She dashed back to see Miles. ‘They want a quiche. They didn’t order it. I know they didn’t.’

  ‘Really?’ said Miles, his disbelief obvious. In about a minute he’d arranged a slice of quiche on a plate with a dollop of potato salad and a small pile of green leaves. ‘Go,’ he said.

  Things had quietened down considerably when Belinda returned.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she asked, as she took off her jacket and set about clearing some of the tables that Bex hadn’t found the time to deal with herself.

  ‘I had to get Miles to help a couple of times.’

  ‘I bet he wasn’t happy about that.’

  Bex wasn’t sure whether to be loyal or lie. ‘Well, you know... I need to learn to change a barrel.’

  ‘Is that all? We’ll do that first thing tomorrow. It’s not hard, honest. Now, you get off, I can deal with the rest of the shift. You deserve to go home and put your feet up before you have to go and get the kids.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Belinda nodded. ‘It’s hardly busy, is it? Not now.’ Which was true. There were only a handful of customers left. ‘Go!’

  Bex said goodbye and made her way to the door while Belinda headed for the kitchen. It was only as Bex was about to turn into her drive that she remembered she’d left her mac hanging on the peg in the pub. She returned and let herself in.

  The door to the kitchen was open and she could hear Miles�
��s voice.

  ‘Bloody hell, Belinda, I thought you said she’d be all right.’

  ‘You having to change a barrel is hardly the end of the world,’ replied Belinda.

  ‘But I had more than enough to do without nursemaiding her.’

  ‘You coped.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I know you like her but it doesn’t make up for the fact she’s verging on incompetent.’

  ‘That’s the thing, Miles, I do like her and she’ll learn. And you’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘You’re in a foul mood because of a late order for tonight and you’re taking it out on Bex.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Belinda standing her ground.

  ‘I don’t like being put under that sort of pressure, that’s all. If you’d been behind the bar I could have got on with the buffet and the lunch service not had to keep abandoning them both to prop up Bex. If she doesn’t shape up, I suggest you make her ship out.’

  Bex grabbed her coat and slipped out. At least she knew where she stood with Miles – on rocky ground.

  20

  Later that week, Olivia left the town hall after the council meeting and went to find her bike at the rack. As she pedalled due west, up the high street towards her house, she shielded her eyes with one hand against the blinding light of the low sun and thought about what had been said by Leanne Knowles and the local police sergeant in their report to the councillors about the crime situation which was, as the council had acknowledged, all very unsettling.

  ‘And it’s not just the break-ins and the burglaries and the thefts – what about the kids doing drugs in the nature reserve?’ Olivia had asked when questions had been invited after the police had made their report.

  ‘I patrol it on a regular basis,’ said Leanne. ‘The trouble is they see me coming and run off.’

  Olivia sniffed. It didn’t seem much of an excuse for not nabbing the little delinquents.

  ‘They shouldn’t be there in the first place.’

  ‘It’s a big public open space,’ said Leanne. ‘I can’t prevent people from using it.’

  ‘Even if they’re off their heads on drink or skunk or whatever they do?’ asked Olivia.

  ‘I can move them on and tell them not to come back if I think they may be committing antisocial behaviour – but, as I said, I have to catch them.’

  ‘I imagine you know who frequents this open-air drug-den,’ said Olivia. ‘The usual suspects, no doubt.’

  ‘A few probably are, yes.’

  ‘And, no doubt, they’re responsible for all the break-ins.’

  ‘We have no evidence as such,’ said the police sergeant, butting in.

  ‘But it stands to reason,’ said Olivia. ‘Everyone knows that drug addicts have to thieve to support their habits.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ said Leanne. ‘I’ve met a load of addicts who come from perfectly nice, middle-class families, much like your own. They’re the kids with the money and so they’re able to afford the drugs in the first place.’

  As if, thought Olivia, as she pedalled up the hill. Her son and his fellow pupils at St Anselm’s had been brought up with decent values. Besides, St Anselm’s had a zero-tolerance policy to drugs and the kids wouldn’t risk losing their places for a puff on a spliff, she was absolutely sure about that.

  As she neared the house the security system tripped and flooded the garden with light. That should put off any burglars, thought Olivia. She opened the garage door, pushed her bike inside and then locked it up, checking carefully that it really was secure before she let herself into the house.

  ‘Zac? Zac, I’m home.’

  Silence. She wasn’t surprised as he’d only grunted at her since she’d stopped his allowance. Let him sulk, she thought.

  She went into the kitchen and got a bottle of wine out of the rack. A nice Malbec was what the doctor ordered. She poured herself a glass and went to sit on the sofa before she picked up the remote and flicked through the channels. Nothing. Zilch. As she sipped her wine she heard the key in the lock. Instinctively she glanced at the clock – getting on for eight. As Nigel came into the house, Olivia picked up her wine and made her way into the kitchen.

  ‘Evening, darling. Have you had a good day at work?’

  ‘It was work.’

  ‘Drink?’ Olivia held up the bottle.

  Nigel nodded. He came over to the counter as Olivia got out a glass, poured his wine and handed it to him.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said, clinking her glass against his.

  ‘The thing is, Ol, I’ve been thinking.’

  Why, thought Olivia, did that sound ominous? But she said, ‘Really, darling,’ in what she hoped sounded was a bright and positive way.

  Nigel went over to the sofa, put his drink onto the coffee table, and flopped down. He stared at his glass.

  Olivia leaned against a worktop in the kitchen and resisted the temptation to tell him to spit it out.

  ‘The thing is, there’s a lot of financial uncertainty at the moment.’

  Olivia narrowed her eyes. What was he beating up to? ‘And?’

  ‘And the markets are jittery.’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘Things are unstable.’

  ‘But we’re all right.’ She said it as a statement of fact not as a question.

  ‘I don’t think anyone can be sure of that at the moment.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘I think we ought to release the equity in this house. I think we ought to downsize.’

  Olivia had taken a sip of her drink and instead of swallowing it, she inhaled it. She coughed until her eyes watered. She finally got her breath.

  ‘Downsize,’ she gasped as she wiped the tears off her cheeks.

  ‘Yes. The other evening I had a look at those houses up behind the station on my way home. Well, I had a look at the show home; nothing else much is finished yet.’

  ‘But they’re crap. They’re being thrown up, they’re not solid and built to last like this place. I should know, I was at the planning meeting when they were approved.’

  ‘They’re not that bad.’

  ‘Huh.’ Olivia took a gulp of wine. ‘But why? Why the hell do you want to move – and to there?’

  ‘Face it, Ol, we don’t need a place as big as this. The kids have left home and Zac will be off to uni soon. We rattle around in this place and it costs a fortune to run.’

  ‘But it’s our home,’ she protested.

  ‘It’s a house.’

  ‘But what about Christmas – when everyone comes home for the holidays?’

  ‘So you’re telling me we keep this place going for a couple of days a year when the kids may or may not come and stay.’

  ‘Yes. And why not?’

  ‘Because it’s a waste of money.’

  ‘So? We can afford it.’

  ‘Yes, but if we both die then the kids get stuck with a vast inheritance tax bill.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Nigel, we’ve years ahead of us yet.’ Olivia stopped and stared at Nigel. ‘You’re not... you aren’t...?’

  ‘No. No, of course not.’

  Olivia didn’t think there was any ‘of course’ about it; his shortness of temper, his erratic behaviour, and now this. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  She didn’t have much choice but to believe him. But if he was lying she could hardly call his bluff, march him down to Dr Connolly and demand an examination then and there. Besides, she was as fit as a fiddle and they both had to die before the kids got stung by a tax bill.

  ‘Then in that case I can see no reason at all for what you suggest.’

  ‘But, Ol—’

  ‘No, Nigel. This is my home. I love this house and that’s that.’

  ‘But think of the equity we’d release.’

  Olivia drained her drink. ‘Which bit of “no” don’t you understand?’

  ‘And which bit of “this
place is too big” don’t you understand?’

  She stamped back into the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine and cook dinner for herself and Nigel. Not that he deserved a decent meal after that, in her opinion.

  *

  Olivia lay on her back in bed, wide-eyed, staring into the dark. What the hell was going on? What exactly did Nigel mean about things being unstable and uncertain? Was he about to be shown the door? Had he already been shown the door? No, that didn’t make sense and anyway, he’d tell her, wouldn’t he? Yes, she’d read in the papers that house prices might fall but, given they’d bought this house for around two hundred grand when they’d first moved here and it was now worth well over a million, that wasn’t ever going to affect them. And yes, it was big and it wasn’t cheap to run but they could easily afford to on Nigel’s income. And it was the family home. However Olivia looked at Nigel’s desire to downsize, it didn’t add up. The only way any of it made sense was if he needed the money for something else.

  Olivia turned her head on her pillow and looked at her sleeping husband. There was only one reason she could think why he might need a sum of money like they’d get from selling the house – and that was if he needed to buy another one, for himself... Two small houses rather than one big one. And there was only one reason why he’d want to do that that she could think of. She turned her head back to stare at the ceiling again.

  Was that what he did on a Tuesday? Was that why his sports kit tended to look unworn? Was there a third person in the marriage? Silent tears slid down Olivia’s temples and onto the bed.

  *

  ‘Good morning, Olivia,’ said Heather. She peered at her visitor. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think I am.’

  Heather flung the door wide and tried not to think about everything she had had planned for the morning. Olivia looked awful and obviously needed a shoulder to cry on – that was if she had any tears left, because, by the look of her, she’d already cried a river.

  ‘Come in. Tea?’

  ‘I’d rather have a coffee.’

  ‘I’ve only got instant, will that do?’

  Olivia nodded as Heather turned and led the way into the kitchen. Olivia took a seat at the kitchen table as Heather bustled around getting out mugs and the milk and putting the kettle on and wondered what on earth might have upset Olivia so badly.