by Pam Rhodes
“And candyfloss!” Betty had come to join the conversation. “That pink fluffy stuff ended up all over my face, and even my hair, but I didn’t feel I’d really been to the fair unless I had some.”
“Oh, I liked toffee apples best,” sighed Doris. “They still sell them, don’t they? I know I’ll see them and want one when we’re there, but my teeth won’t like it. In fact, I probably wouldn’t have any teeth left at all if I tried sinking my choppers into a toffee apple nowadays.”
“I gather,” interjected Ida, “that there will be no need for fish and chips or anything like it that day. We’re having afternoon tea at an extremely nice hotel on the promenade. It’ll be very elegant.”
Flora and Doris exchanged a glance. Whoever wanted to be elegant? It was a day out at the seaside – and that meant buckets and spades, fizzy drinks and sugary doughnuts. Elegance wasn’t likely to get a look in.
“So, ladies, have you decided to pack your bikinis for your dip in the sea? We gents were thinking that a bit of skinny-dipping would be fun!” Percy Wilson’s eyes were sparkling with mischief as he came to join them, feeling rather pleased as Flora and Doris giggled good-naturedly at his suggestion.
“I hope, Percy Wilson,” said Ida, disapproval evident in every fibre of her body, “that you will show a little decorum and take your lewd, childish suggestions elsewhere. There are ladies here!”
“Are there really?” Percy retorted. “Where?” Then, with a cheeky wave and a wink, he strode off to join his old friends John and Robert, who were standing a safe distance away from Ida’s icy glare, uncertain whether to join in or to just leave Percy to it.
Sheelagh’s house phone rang just as she was about to leave home the next morning. She recognized the voice of Salvation Army Captain Sam Morse the moment he said “good morning”.
After a bit of friendly chat about the weather, which seemed to be stuck in the typical British late spring mix of downpours one minute followed by blue skies the next, Sam came to the point that had prompted him to ring.
“Your friend Michael,” he started. “He’s a bit of an enigma really.”
“Oh, so your team does know him, then.”
“Not very well. Once in a while he’s come here to the citadel for something to eat. He doesn’t like coming inside, though. He does the same thing here as he does at Hope Hall – hangs around outside trying to keep hidden, but at the same time obviously hoping either that someone will hand him some food or that he can find a chance to grab something and slip away without anyone really noticing him.”
“He devoured the sandwiches I gave him last time he came to our Food Bank,” agreed Sheelagh. “I remember thinking how thin his arms were.”
“Well, we don’t think he’s eating much at all.”
“How long have you been aware of him?”
“Jackie thinks she first saw him about two months ago, but he could have been in the area before that and just managed to stay under the radar.”
“Any idea where he’s living?”
“We do know he’s not hanging out in the usual places on the streets, so he’s obviously found somewhere he feels safe, away from prying eyes. When Jackie asked Ben, one of our regulars, about him, Ben said he thought he walked a fair distance to get here, and that he might be holed up on farmland somewhere, perhaps in a barn or disused outhouse.”
“Was Ben able to shed any light on who Michael is, or what’s happened to him to bring him to this state of affairs?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Sheelagh sighed. “So, what can we do?”
“Well, Michael seems to have a past that might be traceable. He told you he was the manager of a big supermarket. My guess is that he had a bank account, a car, a National Insurance number, probably a mortgage – and maybe a wife and family. There’s no knowing if he’s a local man, but the chances are that there is some logical reason for him choosing to be here. You know the Salvation Army has a Family Tracing Service, which often has a lot less to work with than that.”
“Could they help us in Michael’s case?”
“I’ve got a good contact there. I’ll give him a call. Of course, you did get that long-distance snapshot of him, but a better photo would be handy…”
“You’re right, but I wonder what chance we have of getting one without scaring him off completely.”
“And we have to consider the possibility of infringing his rights if we take a picture without his permission – which you’ve already done.”
“Point taken, but he’s obviously in trouble to the degree that his life might be in jeopardy if we don’t do something. I don’t know what it is that’s made him want to hide from the world, but what could be so terrible that he’d prefer starving to living?”
“May I suggest,” said Sam, “that Jackie just happens to be around during your Food Bank at Hope Hall next Monday afternoon? If Michael turns up, the two of you might be able to think of a way of drawing him out enough to discover a bit more.”
“That would be great. Thanks, Sam.”
“And thank God you noticed him. I just pray we can find a way to give him the support he needs.”
At that, Sam said his goodbyes, but long after the call was over, Sheelagh found herself thinking about Michael. Who was he? What was his story? Was there a family who missed him? A partner who loved him? Or was it those very people who had made him want to run and hide in the first place?
Trevor whistled softly under his breath as he turned the car off the main road in the direction of Celia’s home, then drove up towards the front door along the wide drive lined by tailored lawns and mature flowerbeds. The name “Ainsworth Cottage” was a modest understatement for the imposing Georgian house with its large bay windows on both the ground and first floors neatly positioned around the elegant front porch. But then this house merited little more than “cottage” status in the Ainsworth family, he thought wryly, because Ainsworth House, the sprawling country estate that had been in the family for centuries, had a baronial hall, more than twenty bedrooms and a dizzying collection of living rooms, where family members had been waited upon hand and foot upstairs by an army of staff who traditionally worked down below. That family seat was now home to Douglas Ainsworth, his wife Diana and their two young sons, and although the staff no longer lived in the shadows below stairs, Douglas felt it was important that he always acted with the decisive authority that was surely expected from the Lord of the Manor.
Trevor remembered Douglas and Celia’s father, James, very well. He had been a kindly man, who led his workforce both on the estate and in the family’s cereal mill with a spirit of teamwork and shared purpose. It was James who had first seen the potential for expanding the scope of work at the mill to cater for the modern breakfast cereal market. His entrepreneurial vision and enterprise saw the erection of rows of gleaming new preparation and packaging warehouses that employed a large local workforce. The reputation of Ainsworth’s Mill went from strength to strength, so that by the time James decided to retire and allow his son and heir, Douglas, to take over as CEO, Ainsworth’s Mill products were familiar in homes not just across the British Isles, but in many other countries around the world.
James had worried about his son taking over. Douglas had shown little interest in the operational procedures, mechanics and challenges of growing the business. In fact, he had made it clear while growing up that figures bored him, and his attention span for anything that really didn’t interest him was dismally short. He had dropped out of university, saying that his tutors knew nothing he’d benefit from knowing, and that world travel was the best way to learn the true lessons of life. Three years later, after stints of living in a surfing community in California, a vineyard in France, and with a Japanese girlfriend from a very wealthy family in Tokyo who, it seems, finally paid him well to go home to England and never darken the door of their daughter again, Douglas landed back at his parents’ house, demanding his rightful place on the board of the family busi
ness.
His mother Frances had begged her husband to encourage their wayward son to learn the ropes in the company he would inherit, but James was no pushover. He insisted that Douglas work his way up from the mill floor, through the different sections of the milling and packaging process, until he had earned his place on the top corridor of executive offices. His father was astute enough to recognize that Douglas was no team player. He had thrown his weight about and snapped unreasonable orders to his work colleagues at every stage of his journey to the boardroom. Eventually, when James finally admitted that he was growing weary after his lifetime at the mill, he retired on his seventieth birthday, leaving Douglas as CEO of the Ainsworth empire and hoping that the excellent board of directors he’d put in place would be able to guide his son wisely.
How often James had wished his son had the work ethic and natural business flair he saw in the older of his two children, Celia. She had spent many childhood hours at the mill, watching the workers, asking questions and helping whenever she could. In the evenings, she would quiz her father about the accounts he was working on, querying the titles and descriptions, and totting up the lines of figures to see if she made the total the same as her father did. James knew Celia would have been a wonderful company head, but the family tradition of the first son inheriting stretched back into the mists of time. Besides, Douglas had ridiculed his younger sister’s interest in the mill earlier on, then resented any official part she had tried to play as he moved up the ranks. As soon as his route to the CEO’s office was assured, Douglas made it perfectly clear that he wanted sole control of the business, and that his sister’s contribution and interest were not welcome in any way. Celia had expected as much, but was still gutted not to be allowed to take more than a passing interest in the family business she had always loved. Her father had insisted that she remain a lifelong member on the board of directors, and Celia never once missed a meeting. However, she soon accepted that any suggestion she made, however innovative or practical, would be greeted with spite and dismissal by Douglas. With a heavy heart, knowing her father would turn in his grave at the autocratic and often ill-informed decisions taken by her brother in recent years, Celia had no choice but to leave him to it.
From conversations Trevor had had with Celia over their many years of friendship, he knew how much the situation not only hurt her, but worried her too. There was added aggravation when Douglas’s wife Diana entered the scene. In Celia’s opinion, Diana was simply a society trophy to her brother – the privately educated daughter of a long-established titled family with a large estate in the Home Counties. Her only interests seemed to be dressage, showy charity garden parties, and coffee mornings with her well-heeled friends, at which they would bemoan the falling standard of nannies, stable staff, cooks and housekeepers. Diana had worked her way through many of each, especially once she’d obediently given birth to an “heir and a spare”. Duty done, she expected a life of privilege and pleasure – and whatever Diana wanted, Diana got!
Celia had seen Trevor’s car coming up the drive and was waiting at the door to greet him. She led the way into the large kitchen, where a rich aroma of coffee wafted on the air. They sat on high stools around the breakfast bar, where they could spread out the papers they needed to discuss and still leave room from for a large plate of delicious biscuits, which only Trevor dipped into.
“Don’t tell Mary,” grinned Trevor as he helped himself to yet another melt-in-the-mouth piece of shortbread.
Celia laughed. “My lips are sealed.”
“Mary would say mine should be too.”
“Your secret is safe with me!”
“How are things at Apex?” chuckled Trevor, wiping away the crumbs from his biscuits that had fallen on to the surface in front of him. “Is business booming?”
“It certainly is. The pension fund’s really flourishing at the moment, in spite of the peaks and troughs in the market.”
“Those are the times you enjoy most of all, though, aren’t they?”
She smiled in mutual understanding. “Well, you know me, Trevor. When it comes to work, the more difficult the task, the more I enjoy it. I earn my salary by making a good profit for the people whose pensions I invest, and for the company that employs me. I’m the head of the UK pension fund for an international financial institution, and it’s a matter of pride to me that I do my job well.”
“Has the takeover by that American corporation made much difference to you? I assume they have an overall strategy you have to adhere to in spite of the fact you are operating in a very different part of the world. Has that made your role more difficult?”
“In some ways, yes, but the takeover was five years ago now. And the money market at this level is completely international – and constantly changing, so I have to make sure we keep at the top of our game. The more complex and intricate it is, the more I enjoy the challenge! And to be fair, they do allow me a great deal of autonomy when it comes to our pension investments here in the UK.”
“As long as the returns are good?”
She smiled. “Exactly. And they are.”
Trevor chuckled in agreement. “Well, Apex is lucky to have you. How about Douglas? Have you seen him lately?”
“At the Ainsworth Mill board meeting last month, but not since then.”
“Are they doing okay?”
“Well, Douglas certainly is. He doesn’t let work get in the way of a very nice lifestyle.”
“And Diana…”
“…is Diana. Spoilt, ineffectual and empty-headed.”
“Just say it like it is!” laughed Trevor.
“I wish it wasn’t so serious, though,” replied Celia. “The board members try their best to keep him in check, and when it comes to the day-to-day work of the company, they’ve got that under control. But it’s those mad, impractical schemes he keeps coming up with – you know, the ones that involve lots of money and as many celebrity names as he can fit in. He just likes having his face in the society columns, I think.”
Trevor looked at her thoughtfully. “How can a brother and sister be so different?”
“Well, we were never really close. The distance between us has just grown over the years.”
“Which brings me to the main reason for my visit today. I come bearing an invitation to something that I’m sure would bore Douglas to tears, but it might just strike a chord with you.”
“Sounds intriguing!”
“Your great-great-grandfather Reginald Ainsworth donated the land Hope Hall was built on, and he contributed half of the money needed to complete the building work too. Hope Hall is marking its centenary this year on August 28th.”
“I knew about the anniversary, but didn’t know exactly when it was happening.”
“Well, the Hope Hall Centenary Committee would like to invite you to unveil the new memorial plaque, which will be placed alongside the original foundation stone from a hundred years ago.”
Celia’s face lit up with pleasure. “I’d absolutely love to! That will be quite emotional, I should think.”
“That’s settled, then. I’ll get the committee to send you a formal invitation, and I’ll be in touch again nearer the time so we can explain exactly what’s required.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“Heavens, I must be off!” Trevor glanced at the kitchen wall clock before gathering up his papers in a rush.
“Have another biscuit,” invited Celia, her eyes shining with mischief.
Trevor didn’t need to be asked twice as he reached forward to claim the last two cookies on the plate. “I don’t mind if I do!”
Andy and the other members of Friction had a long-standing arrangement with Stan, the landlord at their local, the King’s Head, to borrow the pub’s back room every alternate Tuesday evening for band rehearsal. In return, the group donated their services for several music nights at the pub throughout the year, which pleased Stan because these events always drew in big crowds.
That Tuesday evening it was Andy, drummer Nigel and the two guitar players, Jake and Graham, who arrived in good time to set up all the equipment so that they would be ready to start playing at half past seven. There was no sign of Carlos, so the four musicians – who simply jumped at the chance for an impromptu jamming session when they could try out new rhythms, riffs and lyrics – just began playing. Without Carlos, Graham naturally stepped up to lead vocals, his voice mellow and versatile, enabling him to sing thumping rock songs or heartfelt love ballads. Watching Graham from his place at the keyboard, Andy marvelled yet again at his musical skill, not just vocally, but as an instrumentalist too. He was a natural musician, able to play just about any instrument he picked up. He was always happy slipping between rhythm and lead guitar as required, but was equally at home on keys or drums.
It was gone eight by the time Carlos appeared, his arm casually draped over Mariana’s shoulders. Before even acknowledging his fellow band members, he turned to give her a lingering kiss.
“Hasta luego mia adorada,” he drawled, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Tell Stan to give you whatever you want from the bar. It will be free. Carlos said so!”
“You’re late.” There was a hard note to Andy’s voice.
Carlos took his time turning around to acknowledge the rest of the group. “I was busy.”
“So were we. We’ve been working on new material.”
“No point,” shrugged Carlos. “The crowds come to see me. They like how I sing. I choose the songs. I decide.”
“We are a group of equal members,” stated Andy, aware that the other players were bristling with indignation beside him. “We all decide on the style and the material. You are just one member of this band.”
“The most talented member,” snapped Carlos. “Without me, this band is average. I make it great.”
“This band will never be great if we don’t keep up with rehearsals. This practice session starts at half past seven. If you can’t be bothered to get here on time, we’ll find another singer.”