Snake in the Grass

by Dominic Luke

  Gwen moved away from the gaggle of smokers, wanting to snatch a moment’s peace and quiet, to make sense of everything, but even here she was not alone. There was someone in the shadows, over there by the railings where people chained their bicycles – two people, in fact. Was it…? Yes it was: Dean. And Imelda’s granddaughter. Such a nice girl, so quiet and polite. Was Dean … was he actually kissing her? Well, well. One had begun to think he would never get round to….

  But it was obviously a night for wonders. Over two hundred votes! Was it really possible that so many people had—

  There was a sudden stir amongst the smokers. They fell back, were swept abruptly aside as if by a mini tornado. It could only be one person: Imelda Darkley, swooping out from the leisure centre like a Fury, looming up taller even than the monstrosities, blotting out the stars.

  Gwen quailed.

  ‘Are you coming, Calabria?’ Imperious as ever.

  ‘No, Grandma. Dean will take me home.’

  ‘Very well. As you like.’

  Imelda went charging off across the road to where her four-by-four was parked on double yellow lines. Strange to say, as one watched her, she didn’t look half as tall and imposing as one thought. She looked, in fact, rather small and insignificant, an old shrunken figure climbing into an absurdly large car. It seemed incredible to think that this was the same woman who, until barely an hour ago, had been eternal chair of the parish council, queen of the village, suzerain of the country round. Her reign had lasted as long as one could remember. But, all at once, she had been reduced to this: to going home alone in the dark, with only forty-three votes to her name. One could almost feel a bit sorry—

  ‘Tears, Gwendolen?’

  Gwen turned as the sound of Lady Darkley’s car faded into the night. She found herself face to face with Basil, Amanda at his side.

  She wiped her eyes. ‘Silly of me….’

  ‘Silly, Gwen, is not a word that could ever be applied to you.’

  He was looking at her strangely, almost warily. Getting used to having a wife who was on the parish council. Beginning to wonder if he’d ever get his dinner – sorry, supper – on time ever again.

  And yet it wasn’t quite that sort of look. Why did it make one think of Westminster Bridge?

  ‘Well, Councillor Collier: it’s all over. Your chariot awaits. Where am I to take you?’

  She smiled automatically, the same old reticent smile, the one she wore like a comfy cardigan. But then something unexpected happened. It was as if the smile had suddenly come to life, as if it was taking over. She could feel it growing and spreading, a wide smile, an all-embracing smile; a smile like a butterfly stretching its wings.

  She paused for a moment, savouring this strange new sensation, and then, ‘Take me home, please, Basil,’ she said.

  By the Same Author

  Aunt Letitia

  Copyright

  © Dominic Luke 2012

  First published in Great Britain 2012

  This edition 2012

  ISBN 978 0 7198 0833 3 (epub)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 0834 0 (mobi)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 0835 7 (pdf)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 0668 1 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Dominic Luke to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988