by Ann Purser
“It’s a dump,” she said flatly to the estate agent. “A real dump. You’re asking far too much rent, and I wouldn’t dream of paying it. You have wasted my time showing me this place, and I’ll be trying another agent in town.” She marched down the stairs and out to the shop. “Come on, Hazel,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Hazel frowned. She was surprised. Her first impression had changed. Surely a good clean-out and new paint throughout would make a world of difference. And it was not a bad position, on the corner of crossroads and visible from all sides. With a good sign up, it could be not half bad. Then she saw Lois looking at her, and knew she was up to something. “Right,” she said. “I reckon we should try that new lot in the Market Square.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” spluttered the young agent. “Let’s just talk about this one. I agree with you—though I shouldn’t—that it looks a dump now. But it could be fixed to look good. This obviously means expenditure for you, but I think I can promise you some accommodation on the rent.”
“You mean I can have it cheaper,” said Lois, coming to the point. “How cheap?”
The agent named a figure, and Lois shook her head sadly at Hazel. “Shall we go?” she said.
This galvanised the agent, and he blurted out, “Well, Mrs. Meade, what would you consider a fair rent?” He knew only too well that this property had been hanging about on the market for quite a while, and he could see a potential customer slipping rapidly out of his grasp. Finally they reached a compromise that Lois would accept. “If,” she added, “if I decide to take it … I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
“We’ll hold it for you until then,” the young man said, sighing with relief.
“Queuing up for it, are they?” said Lois lightly, and she and Hazel left him standing on the pavement as they drove off in high spirits.
“Tell me about your friend Maureen.” Lois could see Hazel was bursting with news. “She says the whole place is designated for improvement,” she said. “The new ring road’ll make it one of them desirable areas. That old warehouse at the back will be a new leisure centre, and it’s all goin’ to be landscaped and whatnot.”
Lois said, “We got a bargain, then, d’you reckon?” The agent had told her all this on the phone, and she’d been sceptical. She knew about Council plans, she’d said. Might never happen. But she was not about to spoil Hazel’s enthusiasm. She smiled at her. “Fancy working there, then?” she added.
Hazel nodded. “And, what’s more, Maureen said she’d baby-mind for me when Mum’s working and can’t help. So what a piece of luck, hey?”
They walked out into the quiet street. “Not many casual passers-by,” said Hazel.
“Won’t matter to us,” said Lois. “At least they can park outside. Anyway, there’s another shop over there.”
“What, that one with the macs? Looks dodgy to me. You name it, they stock it. What d’you think, Mrs. M?” Laughing, and in celebratory mood, the two of them set off for the supermarket and bought a bottle of champagne—on offer—to share with the team.
THE BUSINESS OF THE MEETING DONE, LOIS SAID SHE had an announcement. She looked at them sitting in a semi-circle. Old friends and loyal team members. Sheila Stratford, farm worker’s wife and one of her originals, and solid as a rock. Enid Abrahams, quiet and mouse-like, but with a core of steel that she’d needed not so long ago. Bridie and Hazel, who she’d known for ever. Bill, her stalwart cleaner cum vet’s assistant. And Sharon, blonde and cheerful, with not much sense but a willing learner. With several occasionals, they were her business as well as her closest friends. For once, Lois felt almost sentimental and was annoyed to find her eyes misting over. She prided herself on a cool, practical approach, and it wouldn’t do to let them see her weaken.
“You know we’re doing pretty well now,” she said firmly. “And I’ve decided we’ll have a proper office in town. It’ll be good for business, somewhere where people can drop in and discuss their requirements. And we’ll feel more professional, all of us. Hazel’s going to work part-time there, and I’ll do the rest. Any questions?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Enid said quietly, “What a good idea, Mrs. M. And where will our office be?”
Lois told them, admitting that at the moment it was a wreck. “But Derek and his mates’ll see to that in no time,” she added.
“I can see it now,” said Hazel dreamily, “with New Brooms over the door in gold letters, and me sitting at my desk with a big smile for customers comin’ in …”
“What about Lizzie?” said Bridie, looking worried. This was going to take more of Hazel’s time than she’d bargained for. But when she heard about Maureen living next door, and Hazel’s plan to take her up on her baby-minding offer, she relaxed. They were all talking together, and excitement was in the air.
Lois stood up and went to the door. “Gran!” she yelled. “You can bring it in now!”
As they stood and toasted the new office, Josie appeared at the door. “Just popped in to see Gran,” she said, nodding at the assembled group. “Blimey, what’re you lot up to?” she added.
There was a thimbleful left in the bottle, and Josie drained it and smiled. “Makes up for being in the doghouse with old Rupert,” she said. “Better get going now. Post was late and I’m just delivering. He blew his top when he didn’t get his bumper pack first thing.”
“Not surprised,” said Bill quietly. “He wouldn’t want them drifting about, maybe getting lost. Not old Rupert. Not those letters.”
SIX
“SHE’S COMING AT FIVE O’CLOCK TOMORROW, DEAR. Will you be here?”
Howard and Doreen Jenkinson sat in their pleasant sitting room, drinking coffee in the cool of the evening. The French windows were open to their immaculately groomed garden, and the liquid song of a blackbird floated in on cue.
“Depends,” said Howard. “There’s the tournament tomorrow, and if I do well I might still be at the club. Ken and me did quite well last year, so we’re hoping for great things.”
“I’m sure you’ll win it, dear,” Doreen said comfortably. “Anyway, I’m quite capable of interviewing a cleaner on my own.”
“Not necessarily the cleaner you’ll be getting,” Howard warned. “Mrs. Meade is the boss. She’ll assess your requirements and choose the best cleaner for the job.”
“Crikey!” said Doreen. “Chars are getting a bit uppity, aren’t they? I don’t want a business plan. I need a reliable woman who works hard, doesn’t talk too much, and is willing to get down on her hands and knees if there’s a call for it.”
Howard stood up and stretched. “Just going up to my den for half an hour or so,” he said. “Oh, and by the way,” he added. “Make sure this woman knows nobody goes in to clean my den. I do it myself as always. Don’t forget, Doreen!”
“You keep it locked anyway, Howard,” Doreen said quietly to his retreating back.
“A MAN?” SAID DOREEN NEXT DAY. SHE HAD DECIDED to interview Mrs. Meade in her kitchen. Start as we mean to go on, Doreen had decided. Now she looked at the confident, attractive woman sitting on the other side of the table, and repeated, “A man to come and clean for me? Good gracious, I can’t have that. What would Howard say?”
Lois smiled patiently. “I don’t know, Mrs. Jenkinson. It isn’t all that unusual these days. Bill has worked for me for quite a while, and has always given satisfaction. He’s the son of a farmer in Yorkshire, and as well as working for me, he helps out at the vets. There’s nothing odd about Bill.”
But Doreen frowned. “Is there no woman who could come?” she said.
“Certainly,” Lois said, realising she was up against a person used to having her own way. “But perhaps you’d like to give Bill a try? Then we could send someone else if you weren’t happy with him. Anyway,” she added, getting to her feet, “why don’t you talk to your husband about it, and give me a ring tomorrow? I have some very experienced women on my team, and there’d be no problem in sending one of them.”
“Very experienced?” said Doreen. “In what way? Surely it doesn’t take much experience to do a bit of dusting and hoovering. We don’t make a lot of mess, just the two of us.”
Lois looked at her watch. “We take our cleaning very seriously, Mrs. Jenkinson, and our clients appreciate that. I’m sure you’ll find we do a good job. Our aim is to make you happy. After all, it’s your home and you live in it. No,” she added, “don’t disturb yourself. I’ll see myself out, and look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.”
“Oh, no, I’ll see you to the door,” Doreen said, hastily following her out of the kitchen. “And there was one other point—an important point. My husband does not like anyone going into his den. Even me! He keeps it locked, as he has important papers in there. He cleans it himself, so he knows nothing will be disturbed.”
Does he now, thought Lois, but she nodded and said, “Fine. We’ll remember that. Hear from you tomorrow then,” she smiled, and walked briskly out to her van.
On her way home, she called in to see Bill. He had just returned from his least favourite job at Farnden Hall, and was making strong tea for himself and his long-time partner, Rebecca.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Lois, accepting a cup of Bill’s brew. “Just thought I’d let you know that you’ll be cleaning for the Mayor and his lady wife as from next week.”
“Wow!” said Bill. “They don’t come any grander in Tresham. Old Howard Jenkinson? I’ve heard he’s a wheeler-dealer and one to beware of. A real Treshamite of the old school. Tough and unforgiving. Charming on the surface, and ready to crucify you if necessary.”
“Where’d’you hear that?” Rebecca said. She taught in Waltonby village school, and was not well up in town gossip.
“These things get around,” said Bill. “We hear all sorts in the vets’ waiting room. Apparently the Jenkinsons used to breed those poor little squashed-face dogs, and were tight as ticks when our bills were sent. Always quibbled. Wanted discounts. You know the sort, Mrs. M.”
Lois smiled. “We’ll be ready for ‘em, then,” she said. “Mrs. J has to clear it with her husband—she’s not at all sure about having a male cleaner. You know, the usual thing. But I think it’ll be all right. If not, I’ll send Enid.” She bravely downed the dark orange tea, and drove off. Sounds like we’ve got awkward sods with the Jenkinsons, she thought. Still, it would be worth keeping them sweet. They know everybody in Tresham, and everybody knows them.
SEVEN
THE MAN FROM THE COUNCIL PLANNING DEPARTMENT knocked on the Forsyths’ door and waited. He quickly checked that he had all the papers concerned with the application, and put on his serious face. Almost all applications, if not turned down in this conservation village, had to be modified, and he believed in making it quite clear that whatever the applicant was planning, it was not just a case of what suited them, but how it affected others in the village, their close neighbours, and the Council’s own overall plans for the area.
Unless, of course, it was a plan for development by the Council itself, like the school extension in Waltonby. There, in spite of strong local protests, they had cheerfully felled a perfectly healthy hundred-year-old sycamore which had sheltered generations of schoolchildren from sun and rain in the school playground. This was to make way for a couple of extra classrooms, because local elections were coming up, and money was made available suddenly for school building extension. Rebecca Rogers had watched the tree come down from her classroom window, and felt sick, as if observing a particularly brutal murder. One of her small students had tucked her hand in Rebecca’s, sensing her distress. Bill had stood at the playground railings, taking before and after photographs, and the butchered stump haunted Rebecca’s dreams for days afterwards.
None of this had made any impression on the Council official standing at Rupert Forsyth’s door, and he had half a dozen other applications to see to in his document case. Uppermost in his mind was the worrying fact that it was his wedding anniversary and he had forgotten to buy his wife a present.
“Good morning,” he said briskly, as Daisy Forsyth opened the door. “County Planning Office, Mr. Collins.”
“Oh, yes,” said Daisy quickly. Rupert was upstairs in the bathroom, but she ushered Mr. Collins into the sitting room and went off to make coffee. Mr. Collins looked around, then walked over to the windows overlooking the garden. The application was for an extension—quite substantial—and he checked the intended use again. “Seating area, cloakroom and boot room.” Boot room? He hadn’t encountered this before.
“You learn something new every day in this job, Mrs. Forsyth,” he said accusingly. “What on earth is a boot room?”
Rupert appeared and said firmly, “Where we put our boots, Wellington and walking, muddy and wet, also umbrellas, walking-sticks, folding garden chairs, sunshades—”
“All right, all right,” said Mr. Collins. “I get it. Now, let’s have a look at the plans.” He walked to a drop-leaf table by the wall, and Daisy rushed to open it up. The plans were spread out, and the two men pored over them.
“Is this supposed to be a sort of conservatory seating area?” Mr. Collins asked. “And if so, why in brick and with very few windows? Why not have a perfectly good prefab, wooden framed job in a style harmonising with the house? You’re much more likely to get permission.”
Silence. Daisy looked nervously at Rupert, praying that he wouldn’t have one of his explosions.
“Ah,” he said calmly. “Now, Mr. Collins …” He spoke slowly, as if to a dim child. “If I had wanted an off-the-peg, gimcrack conservatory, with flimsy Victorian trimmings, I would have asked for one. This is an extension carefully thought out to meet our requirements, mine and the wife’s, and we are hoping the Planning Department will approve it as such. Of course, if there are small adjustments suggested, then we shall be only too happy to co-operate.”
He beamed good-humouredly at Mr. Collins, who did not smile back. We’ve got a right one here, he thought to himself. Well, we’ll see just how happily Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth co-operate when they gel the Council’s decision!
Secure in the knowledge that his report and recommendations were all-powerful, he left the house and immediately dismissed the Forsyths from his mind. He remembered the village shop, and pulled up in the forlorn hope that it would offer something suitable for his wife.
NOTHING IN LONG FARNDEN WENT UNOBSERVED. JOSIE had seen Mr. Collins’s car arrive outside the Forsyths as she cycled back from delivering. Now he had parked outside the shop and was coming up the steps. A strange car. Who was he, then? And what did he want with the Forsyths? These thoughts were routine in the village. Everybody had them, and the answers fed the network of information that kept the gossips going.
“Morning! Can I help you?” Josie was always cheerful.
Blimey, thought Lois, coming in behind Mr. Collins. Can this really be our Josie, the sulky teenager who caused us so much trouble? She waited discreetly until he had wandered round the shelves, not seeming to know what he was looking for.
“I don’t suppose you have any … er … any special chocolates, flowers, or …”
“A present?” said Josie. “For your wife?” Oops, she thought. Is that a step too far?
But the man nodded. “In the doghouse,” he said, with the trace of a smile.
“Right,” said Josie briskly. “You’re in luck. I can just hear the flower van out the back, so there’ll be fresh flowers. And over here …” She walked across the shop to shelves in the corner. “Over here we have our Swiss chocolates. We put them away from the window. First mistake I made,” she added chattily. “I put some new stock on the front shelves so’s people would see them, and the afternoon sun melted the lot.”
When Mr. Collins had paid and was about to leave looking infinitely more cheerful than when he came in, Josie asked lightly, “Are you a stranger round here? Need any directions?”
Mr. Collins gave a gravelly laugh and shook his head. “No, I’m from Tresham. Been to see
about plans for an extension.” It was said with a purpose. You never knew what useful information would result from a word in the right place.
“Oh, you mean the Forsyths,” said Josie cheerfully. “Yeah, we know about that. Looks quite a good idea, for him and his letters! Needs a new building to house that lot!”
“Letters?” said Mr. Collins, his nose twitching like a rat’s. Was this a business Rupert Forsyth was intending to conduct from his home? If so, there would be regulations to consider. Regulations were meat and drink to Mr. Collins.
“Oh, just a joke,” said Josie hastily, seeing exactly which way the wind was blowing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to the flower man. You had the pick of the lot! I hope your wife’s pleased. Have a nice day.” And she disappeared from Mr. Collins’s prying eyes.
He reluctantly left the shop and climbed into his car, but did not start the engine straight away. Letters, eh? Maybe he should go back and have another word with the Forsyths, just to make sure. Then he looked at his watch. Oh Lord, he’d only just get back in time to take his wife out to lunch. He couldn’t risk two scenes in one day. There’d be time later to see the Forsyths, he decided, and drove off towards Tresham and humble pie.
EIGHT
BILL‘S CAR CRUNCHED SLOWLY UP THE CURVING DRIVE to the Jenkinsons’ house, and parked round the back, as instructed. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock on the dot. Mrs. M was very particular about punctuality, and he got out and walked swiftly to the back door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Jenkinson,” he said cheerfully. “Lovely morning.”
Doreen looked at him suspiciously. “Are you from New Brooms?” she said.
“Yes, that’s me, Bill Stockbridge. How d’you do.” He extended his hand and shook her reluctant one.