by Ann Purser
HOWARD AND DOREEN SAT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE, reading the morning papers. Howard had taken the Daily Telegraph for as long as he could remember, and without asking, he had ordered the Sun for Doreen. She would have preferred the Daily Mail, having no interest in page three girls who looked as if they’d been inflated with a balloon pump. But habit had caused her to accept Howard’s choice without demur, and only lately had she begun to think of changing.
“Good heavens, Doreen!” Howard said suddenly. This morning he was reading the local paper property pages, and looked up at her in astonishment.
“Ooops,” thought Doreen. “What now?”
“Here, look,” he continued. “This ad for next door’s house—see what they’re asking for it!”
The Jenkinsons lived on the Nob Hill of Tresham, where all the large houses had spacious gardens and carriage drives and coach lamps, and all the trimmings of wealth. Howard had heard a rumour that their neighbours were moving, and now here was the estate agents’ advertisement, with a large photograph and the usual overblown text.
“Million and a half!” Doreen exclaimed, peering at the paper. “Gracious, Howard. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
It had indeed made Howard think. He suspected house prices were at their peak, and would shortly begin to fall. This house was much too big for them now, and he had begun to think perhaps he should sell, capitalise on the investment, and buy somewhere smaller, outside Tresham, perhaps. In the country, but not too far away. It would take time to find a place, of course. He would have to find out if that would rule out a second term as Mayor of Tresham. Howard had so many plans, most of them involving discreet plaques acknowledging the patronage of Howard Jenkinson as the prime mover of projects to benefit the community.
Doreen was watching his expression, and had no trouble reading his mind. “Maybe we should think about selling,” she said. “Look for somewhere smaller. I wouldn’t mind. It’d be easier, and we’d save on cleaners and gardeners. Where d’you fancy looking?” The prospect began to look appealing. All the boring routine of her life would change. New faces, new neighbours—and not such snotty ones, with luck—and a different way of going on. Especially if they settled in a village. She was a faithful fan of radio’s vintage farming soap, being as familiar with generations of the Archer family as her own, and had always had a fancy to be one of them.
Howard reflected. He knew the area like the back of his hand, he often said. “Like the back of my hand, Ken,” he’d repeated, when they were looking for pastures new in business or pleasure. Now he remembered one particular village that had come to his notice recently. Old Rupert Forsyth and his missus, the delectable Daisy, had not long ago moved to Long Farnden. He’d met Daisy in the market, and she’d said she loved it. “Should have settled there years ago,” she’d laughed, “instead of all the back streets I have known!” She’d been a great girl, had Daisy. And still full of fun!
“I’ll give it some thought,” Howard said. Best not to look too keen at first. He didn’t want Doreen going overboard, trawling the villages for miles around. Time enough later on. Yes, he’d suggest Farnden at drinkies time this evening. “Well, dear, best be off,” he added. “Busy day ahead.” Including dictating a few letters to the fair Susanna, he thought with pleasure. Somehow, he had to ease Jean Slater out gently, he had decided. Not only did she know too much, but he was tiring of her familiarity, lack of respect, and the increasingly frequent mocking tone she used with him.
“I’ll just feed the fish,” he said. “Check the pond. Then I’ll be away. Not in for lunch, but I hope to be home in reasonable time. Take care, Doreen. Have a nice day.”
He strode out into the garden and Doreen could see him by the pond. “Giving the fish their orders, I expect,” she muttered. The day stretched ahead, but instead of her usual fight against boredom, she cleared the dishes cheerfully and made a list of estate agents. What fun! She’d ring Jean and see if she could get time off to view properties with her. A lovely excuse to snoop round strangers’ houses, and this time she was going to decide where they lived. She would do the choosing this time. A new life, that’s what she wanted, and that is what she intended to have.
SEVENTEEN
IN THE EXCITEMENT OF A NEW LIFE DANGLING BEFORE her, Doreen had forgotten that it was a Bill day. When he tapped at the back door and opened it, she turned in alarm. “Oh, oh, it’s you, Bill. Of course it is. Come on in. I’ve just finished the dishes, so you can make your usual start.” She wondered whether to open a conversation about moving house, but thought it was maybe too soon.
Bill began to collect up the newspapers from the floor where Howard had dumped them, and said, “ ‘Ello, ‘ello … what have we here? Reading the property pages? Thinking of going into the agency business?” It was a joke, and he was surprised at Doreen’s reaction.
“No, of course not,” she said sharply. Then she softened, and said, “Well, actually, Bill, we are just beginning to think about the possibility of moving out to the country. All in the very early stages of course, and I shall be needing you for months to come—if not years!”
Bill filled the mop bucket and tipped in a generous slurp of Flash. “Anywhere in mind?” he said casually.
Doreen shook her head. “A village not too far away from Tresham,” she said. “Near enough for Howard to continue with his community work.” Then she spluttered and began to giggle.
“Mrs. Jenkinson?” Bill was curious. There was a distinct difference about Mrs. J this morning. Almost flirty! Oh Lord, not a menopausal client—but no, she was past all that. From his lofty early thirties, Bill saw all ladies over fifty as past everything, and Doreen knew this. Still, she could have a bit of fun with him.
“Don’t worry, Bill,” she said. “Just the thought of Howard and his community work. His idea of a good deed in the community is strictly to do with cheering up any females languishing in the offices at the Town Hall. If they’re young, tall, and blonde, so much the better. Now,” she added, relishing his obvious embarrassment, “I’ll let you get on.” And she positively skipped out of the room.
At coffee time, Bill had a suggestion for Doreen. He’d been thinking about the difference in her as he went about the house. At the top of the stairs, he’d caught her looking through the keyhole of the den. She’d not even tried to pretend she wasn’t snooping, but had said, “Come here, Bill. See if you can see anything. There’s a telly, and what looks like a pile of videos. I can see them, but not much else.” He had shaken his head and said it was more than his job was worth. “If Mrs. M found out, it’d be the end of my illustrious career with New Brooms,” he said.
“Who’s going to tell her?” Doreen had said, not put off.
But Bill had stuck to his refusal, and walked away to finish the luxury bathroom which was all Doreen’s own with its gold taps and heart-shaped bath.
Now he stood by the kitchen table, sipping coffee and listening as she nattered on about her grandchildren and the latest tooth cut by the baby. In a short pause in the monologue, he said, “I’ve just remembered something might interest you.”
She looked at him enquiringly. It was unlike Bill to initiate any topic in the conversation. “Go on,” she said.
“It’s just that there’s a house for sale in Long Farnden. You know, the village where Mrs. M lives. Her house was our headquarters, until the office opened in Tresham. Nice village—shop, pub, church, school. More facilities than usual. Bus three times a week. Not that you would need that,” he added quickly, unable to see Doreen climbing into the bus with her shopping bag.
“What kind of a house?”
“Old, stone-built, medium size, mullion windows, beamed ceilings—you know the sort of thing. Used to be lived in by an old man who died, then it was rented temporarily by the vicar, while they rebuilt the vicarage. Remember that fire? Well, the vicarage is ready for him to move back now, and the old house’ll be on the market. No signs up yet, but I reckon if you got in there quickly, you’d
get it for a good price. Needs quite a lot doing to it, but that’d be no problem for you.” He glanced around at the immaculate kitchen, thought of the rest of the prestigious property, and nodded. “No, you’d fix it up easily.”
This was an unusually long speech for Bill, and Doreen laughed. “Good heavens, Bill, are you getting commission from the agents?” Then she added quickly, “But it sounds just the thing. I’ll tell Howard this evening, and we’ll have a look at the weekend. Thanks, Bill. And you’d stay with us, wouldn’t you, even if it needed less hours?”
“We’ll see about that,” he said practically, “when the time comes.”
HOWARD WAS IN A GOOD MOOD WHEN HE RETURNED. He had explained to Jean that he’d been asked to try out a new girl for possible advancement, give her a few letters etcetera, but he omitted her probable destination. Susanna had proved very efficient, demure and respectful. Lovely as ever, he’d thought, as he looked at her neatly crossed ankles. He viewed Jean’s broad bottom with a jaundiced eye when she’d come into his office with a feeble excuse and a sneer on her face. The only fly in the ointment had been when he’d asked Susanna if she intended to stay on at the Town Hall. He dropped a hint that promotion might come soon. She’d been evasive, stuttering about not being sure … possible other plans … difficult to say at the moment. That kind of thing. Still, if he offered her the job soon, promised a hefty increase in pay, that should do the trick.
All he wanted, he told himself, was a nice pair of legs to look at over the desk, and a willing nature.
“Good day, clear?” Doreen asked him, as he took off his coat.
“Not bad,” he said. “Rushed off my feet as usual, but you know me—I flourish on hard work. Now, ready for a little drinkie?”
He got around to the subject of looking for houses quite quickly. To Doreen’s surprise, he said almost at once that he had been thinking of Long Farnden. A particularly attractive village, he had insisted, and Doreen was not objecting. In fact, when she had a chance to contribute, she told him of the odd coincidence. “Bill was telling me,” she said, “about an old house in Farnden that’ll be on the market very soon. Isn’t that strange? Must be meant, Howard. Shall we go and look at it?”
Bill had not known which agents would be handling it, but that was no problem for Howard. He knew them all in Tresham. Estate agents, builders’ suppliers, architects’ offices, all in the same world and all doing each other a good turn where possible. And it was always possible.
“Easy, Doreen,” he said. “Leave it to me, pet. I’ll get it all sorted tomorrow, and we’ll drive over and have a look. If we like it, we should be able to get things moving reasonably quickly. There’ll be no problem selling this one, anyway. I had a word with the editor at the Gazette, and he rang back to say our neighbours have sold already. People competing, apparently, which drove the price even higher!”
Doreen said nothing, but smiled in agreement. Inside, she was plotting fiercely. She had no intention of looking at it with Howard. First she would see it alone, or with Jean. And if she liked it, she would be prepared. Howard had little imagination, and if it was in a bad state, would probably not see the potential. A vicar, had Bill said? A man living on his own. Could be neglected, at the very least.
“When d’you reckon we could go?” she said, and when he replied that it would most likely be early next week, she decided to ring Jean as soon as possible.
“HELLO? JEAN?” HOWARD WAS UP THE GARDEN, LECTURING the fish, and Doreen made a swift call. “Can’t say much now, but can you spare an hour or two tomorrow?” She explained quickly, and the visit was fixed before Howard returned, complaining that two fish were missing. “That heron again! Really, Doreen, you’ve got nothing to do all day, you could’ve kept an eye on the pond, chase the bugger away as soon as he landed.”
“Yes, dear,” Doreen said meekly. “Maybe the fish are hiding under a lily pad. They do sometimes, you know. Or they could be right at the bottom. It’s quite deep up one end, isn’t it? Have another count in the morning, and you’ll probably find they’re still there.”
Howard was mollified for the moment, and switched on the television, choosing a mindless quiz game that he loved, and Doreen loathed. “I’ll just be in the kitchen for a while,” she said. “Finishing touches to supper. I’ll give you a shout when it’s ready.”
She closed the kitchen door behind her, and picked up the local paper, turning to the property pages. Now, which agent was it likely to be? Oh, Lord. Could be any of them. A half-page of ads for properties in Waltonby, Fletching and Round Ringford, caught her eye. Ah, yes, and there were a couple in Long Farnden. Bill had said the house was not yet on the market, but as soon as Howard had gone tomorrow, she would ring these agents and ask. Bound to be the ones! She made a note of the telephone number in her diary, in case Howard look the paper off to the Town Hall, as he sometimes did. He loved to read over and over again the reports of his own visits to schools and fêtes and newly opened swimming pools. There were a couple of photographs of him in this issue. In one, she was there with him. They’d been invited to the dedication of a new multi-faith church in an expanding area of town. Howard had a suitably solemn expression, and Doreen saw herself unsuitably smiling at a rogue choirboy picking his nose. In the other photograph, she was not there, and now looked closely at Howard presenting prizes at the local College of Further Education. Resplendent in his golden chain, he had a fatherly hand on the arm of a nubile blonde student.
One of these days … Doreen thought, taking a deep breath as she set two trays for supper. They would have supper on their laps, watching the telly. Then she wouldn’t have to listen to his report of the day’s triumphs in his Mayoral duties.
“Just coming in, Howard. Would you like a beer with yours?” she shouted.
“Good girl,” he answered. “What should I do without my Doreen?”
And what would your Doreen do without you? she said silently to herself.
EIGHTEEN
LOIS COULD SEE OLD CYRIL‘S HOUSE FROM HER OFFICE window. She had kept the office going in the Farnden house, although some of the paperwork had been moved to Sebastopol Street. For one thing, she liked having a bolt-hole where she could escape from Gran occasionally. Her mother was a gem, but sometimes her love of gossip, and memories of the old times, were too much for Lois.
The team still met on Mondays in Long Farnden, as it was more convenient for all of them. Hazel closed the Tresham office for a couple of hours, and they all gathered in Lois’s house to go over schedules of work and for a chance to say anything that was on their minds—good or bad.
Last Monday, Sharon Miller had said she’d applied for a business studies course at the college in Tresham, and might not be able to give so much time to cleaning. Lois had thought privately that she’d have serious doubts about any business run by Sharon, but wished her well, and thought how fortunate that Sheila had come up with her niece, Susanna. She’d liked the girl at interview, and they’d agreed she could start in a month’s time. This would give Lois a chance to reorganise things, and Susanna could quit the Town Hall job without leaving them in the lurch.
LOIS LOOKED UP AND DOWN THE STRUCT IN THE TIME-honoured fashion, and saw no one. Then a car drew up outside old Cyril’s house. She always thought of it as old Cyril’s, although the vicar had been living there for some while. Poor old Cyril. He was much missed in the village, even though—or perhaps because—he had been such an awkward old sod.
Two women got out of the car, and Lois strained to see if she recognised them. Both were middle-aged and both well-dressed. The car was small, but Lois knew a luxury model when she saw one. What are they after, then?
At this point, Gran knocked at the door perfunctorily and came in. “Like a cup of tea, Lois?” she said.
Lois knew this was a signal that Gran was bored, and needed someone to talk to. “Not really,” she said. “But come here and have a look down the street. See those women? D’you recognise them?”
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p; Gran looked out, and considered. “One of ‘em,” she said, “looks a bit familiar but I can’t think why. Hey, Lois, they’re going into Cyril’s garden—and now they’re peering in the windows! What’s going on? And where’s the vicar? He’s usually at home at this time of the day.” Everybody in Farnden knew where everybody else should be at any given time of day.
“Well, they’re knocking on the door now,” Lois said. “Maybe he’ll let them in.”
But the door was not opened, and the women hovered uncertainly.
Gran was galvanised into action. “Just going to the shop,” she said. “I need to tell Josie something,” she added, and was out of the front door and into the street before Lois had time to answer.
The telephone rang as Gran left, and Lois picked up the receiver. “New Brooms,” she said. “Lois Meade speaking. Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” said a man’s voice, “but I don’t need a cleaner. Well, maybe I do, but that’s not what I’m ringing about.”
“Who is this?” Lois was instantly on guard. Not another caller asking about yard brooms and leather dusters. The man didn’t give a name, but said, “I hope you’ll forgive my ringing if I’ve got it wrong, but I’m told you have a detective agency on the side?”
Lois snapped. “Whoever told you that was wrong! Completely wrong. This is a cleaning business, with a good reputation, and I have nothing more to say.”
“Hold on a minute! Don’t fly off the handle,” the man said. “I just wanted a bit of enquiring done on the quiet. An old colleague of mine in Tresham. Man in high office, all that sort of thing. Your name was mentioned once. Something to do with clearing up that business of a fire in Farnden? Young man died? Anyway, sorry if I’ve got it wrong. I’ll try somewhere else.”