by G. M. Dobbs
GRANNY SMITH INVESTIGATES
By G. M. Dobbs
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Publishers Note:
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to real persons, or events is coincidental.
(C) Red Valley Publishing 2012
© Granny Smith image Tony Masero 2012
Cover photography and all other artwork by Red Valley Publishing.
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Thank you.
On the origins of Granny Smith
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Bonus One
Also available
Granny Smith and the Deadly Frogs
Acknowledgements:
Special thanks must go to Lucy Grummel of the South Wales Police, Press Office for her help in answering my questions regarding special constables and their role in modern policing.
This one is for Beth and Georgia
A Granny Smith Mystery
On the origins of Granny Smith
Of course Granny Smith’s real name wasn’t Granny but everyone called her Granny. It wasn’t because she was a grandmother, though she was three times over, but rather because as a child she had loved apples, would take one to school for her lunch each and every day. It seemed that wherever she went an apple went with her and so associated with the fruit had she become that eventually some bright spark had nicknamed her Granny Smith after that popular Australian variety of apple.
She was seventy one years old and her given name was Mary Alice Davies, which meant she had the rather unfortunate initials - M A D, but she had never let that bother her and besides, she had often reasoned; when I marry I will have a totally different surname. Eventually she had married a local man who went by the name of Arthur Smith, Smith of course, like Davies, being a common enough name, and she did indeed get a new surname, in fact her nickname became her surname. However because most people knew her by the nickname, Granny Smith, no one seemed to notice when she became a Smith for real, and, if truth be told, to many people she would remain forever mad.
Granny Smith was thought by most to be an odd sort, altogether harmless but decidedly odd. She dressed, an unkind person would say, like a dosser. While more kindly souls would have to admit that her style of dress was, to say the very least, eccentric. She usually wore tight leggings that were better suited to a woman half her age and would wear these with a variety of T-shirts and a body warmer of navy blue fleece. She always wore that body warmer, zipped up in winter and open during the warmer months. And if all this didn’t make her look bizarre enough she topped it off with the corncob pipe that seemed to be permanently clamped between her teeth. It is fair to say that there was something of a Seventies vibe to the way she dressed
As she walked into the convenience store that morning she was wearing a pair of lime green leggings, a T-shirt that bore the legend, “Motorhead On Tour 1980”, and the body warmer hung open. It was the middle of July, after all.
Morning, Mr Patel,’ Granny said by way of greeting and went straight to the rear of the shop and grabbed herself a two litre bottle of milk. She took it to the counter where her usual ounce of ready rubbed tobacco and tube of strong mints were waiting.
‘Lovely weather,’ Mr Patel said, not bothering to tell Granny the price of her items. There was no need for that since she knew well enough. ‘Will you be at the village fete this afternoon?’
‘Aye, I will,’ Granny spoke around the unlit pipe in her mouth. She put a ten-pound note on the counter and placed the tobacco and mints into the pockets of her body warmer.
‘I suppose we’ll be having some of your cakes for refreshments again this year,’ Mr Patel handed Granny her change. ‘Very nice they were.’
Granny looked at the shopkeeper, not sure if he was being sarcastic or not. In the end she nodded and said, ‘I’ll bake you a curry flavoured muffin.’
‘Oh away with you,’ Mr Patel said. ‘That could be construed as racist you know.’
‘If I were racist,’ Granny said, speaking back over her shoulder as she left the store. ‘I’d go to the supermarket in the High Street. The milk there is three pence cheaper than yours.’
‘But you don’t get the personal service,’ Mr Patel said as the door slammed shut on Granny’s back.
‘You certainly don’t,’ Granny mumbled and ruffled Ajala’s (Mr Patel’s youngest daughter) hair. The girl had been standing outside of the shop listening to music through a pair of pink ear-buds and she gave Granny a warm smile.
‘Good morning Granny Smith,’ the girl said, removing the ear-buds. ‘Will Suzy be over later?’
Suzy was one of Granny’s grandchildren, the eldest in fact, and she and Ajala were the best of friends, quite often inseparable. The two girls referred to each other as their BFF’s, which, Granny had learned, meant Best Friends Forever. That was so cute and the first time Granny heard it had made her LOL.
‘She will,’ Granny said. ‘We’re all going to the village fete. I’m sure we’ll see you there.’
‘Good,’ Ajala said and pushed the ear-buds back into her ears. Immediately she was in her own little world.
Granny thumbed tobacco into her pipe and brought a match to it. She sucked the pipe to life and ruffled the girl’s hair once more before setting off.
There was a spring in Granny’s steps as she walked along the estate to the small neat house she shared with her husband, Arthur and their eldest son Gerald. They had two children, a son and a daughter but whilst Leanne had flown the coop years since, Granny didn’t think Gerald would ever do so. Liked his home comforts too much, that one and didn’t seem at all interested in romantic entanglements. In fact Granny could never remember Gerald having a real girlfriend. Still, she had never let it worry her. It wasn’t as if Gerald was a recluse or anything and he had a wide range of friends, just none of the opposite sex.
She puffed away quite happily on the pipe as she choo-choo trained along the street, leaving billows of fragrant smoke like opaque balloons hanging in the air behind her.
One
The Gilfach Village Fete was in full swing and Granny was in her element; she thrived around chaos, always had. A good thing really, since she was often, and through no fault of her own, the instigator of quite extreme chaos. It seemed to follow her around and she certainly had a knack for rippling the calmest of waters, a skill that could be considered both a curse and a gift, depending on one’s mood at any given time.
‘Of course you can see what she sees in him,’ Maud Wilkins said, lea
ning closer to Granny. ‘He’s a fine looking man and holds himself ever so well. Apparently he’s a widower.’
‘Yes,’ Granny nodded, slapped Tim’s hand, which had emerged from beneath the table and appeared to be searching for a free Welsh cake. The man’s appeal was obvious. He was tall, fair-haired and held himself in a manner of casual dignity. ‘But what’s the attraction for him?’
‘Granny,’ Maud’s face held a look of delighted shock. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
Granny reached down and lifted young Timmy by the scruff of the neck, smiled, clipped him gently across the ear and sent him off to find mischief elsewhere, with a stern, “Bugger off.”
‘Well,’ she said. ‘He’s tall, tanned, deep blue eyes and is at least ten years younger than Sheila… and as for Sheila - well come on...call a spade a spade.’
‘You can’t say that anymore,’ Maud grasped one of Granny’s arms and gave a polite smile to the old man who was browsing the varied pastries on Granny’s table.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s racist.’
‘Is it?’
‘It can be.’
‘Oh aye,’ the man said and fingered one of the angel cakes, ‘It can be. Can’t say a lot of things nowadays. Can’t call the wife’s cousin, Henrik a Jerry anymore,’ the man lifted the angel cake and sniffed it before putting it back on the table, ‘He’ll always be a Jerry to me,’ the man wandered off without purchasing the cake he had so thoroughly examined.
Granny frowned for a moment. The language was being eroded away by political correctness and, not for the first time, she felt as if she would soon lose her entire lexicon. In the end she decided she’d be safe with: ‘Call a middle-aged woman with saggy boobs, a middle aged woman with saggy boobs. Is that racist?’
‘Well it’s an improvement,’ Maud said, glancing across the field to where Sheila stood with Sex on Legs, looking wonderfully dishy in a fawn coloured suit and open necked shirt, beside her. They appeared to be watching a bunch of kids who were trying to win, without much success, on the coconut shy.
‘Look at them,’ Granny clucked her tongue and took her corncob pipe out of her pocket and placed it between her teeth. ‘Talk about the odd couple.’
Arthur, who had been snoozing in the deckchair besides Granny’s table opened his eyes for a moment, looked at the two women and then went back to sleep.
‘Most odd,’ Maud agreed, noticing that they were holding hands like a couple of love struck teenagers. ‘Look, they’re coming over.’
‘What?’ Granny, who had been sucking her pipe to life, looked up. For a moment she saw the world through a haze of tobacco smoke, but as it cleared she saw that Sheila and Nigel Charlton were indeed coming towards the stall. She had to admit that he was a handsome man and although she’d seen him when he had accompanied Sheila to the line dancing evening last Thursday, it had not been up close like this. And of course during the line dancing he had been wearing a star spangled shirt and a Stetson, which didn’t really show of his finely carved features.
Granny slapped her slumbering husband across the back of the head and ordered him to wake up and sit up.
‘Morning Maud, morning Granny,’ Sheila said as they approached the stall.
‘Lovely day,’ Nigel commented and smiled a mouth full of perfectly white teeth. He looked down at the varied cakes on Granny’s stall and smiled. ‘Those Welsh cakes look delicious,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a half dozen of those. Just the thing for my tea this evening.’
‘Going native,’ Granny said and using a spatula she lifted six of the Welsh cakes and placed them into a bag that bore the legend, “Patel’s Everything under one roof convenience store”.
‘When in Rome,’ Nigel said and Sheila gripped his arm and gave out a girly giggle.
‘Well in Wales we call them bakestones,’ Granny said and handed the bag over. ‘That’ll be three pounds, please.’
‘Well that’s put me in my place,’ Nigel said and once again Sheila giggled. ‘Still I imagine they’ll be delicious no matter what one calls them.’
‘Where you from, mate?’ Arthur asked and climbed out of his chair. He took up a position next to Granny and stretched to work a kink out of his back. For one awful moment Granny thought he was going to break wind, which he often did after waking up, but thankfully he kept his flatulence at bay.
‘London,’ Nigel said and offered his hand to Arthur. ‘Nigel Charlton.’
‘Arthur Smith,’ Arthur replied, vigorously shaking the man’s hand. ‘Granny’s me wife.’
‘And a lucky man you are,’ Nigel said and gave a boyish smile which didn’t quite work on Granny who simply stared back at him.
‘And what brings you to Wales?’ Arthur asked.
‘ I took an early retirement,’ Nigel said. ‘And decided I wanted a quiet life. London can be ever so trying. I decided to trade the cut and thrust of city life for the tranquillity of the countryside.’
‘Nigel lives in the village now,’ Granny informed her husband. ‘He and Sheila are -,’
‘Engaged,’ Sheila said and held out her hand for them to examine the rather beautiful ring she was wearing. She smiled so widely that it threatened to split her face.
Granny and Maud exchanged a look.
‘Congratulations to you both,’ Arthur said and then placed an arm around Granny. ‘You can’t go wrong with a Welsh bird.’
‘I’m sure,’ Nigel said, that charming smile plastered across his face.
‘ Maybe it’s because he’s a Londoner,’ Sheila sang and then giggled.
Maybe it’s because he’s got a pulse, Granny thought but said nothing. Sheila was known for chasing after anything in trousers. Still she seemed to have landed quite a catch this time.
‘Well technically I’m a Londoner myself,’ Sheila said. The way she held onto Nigel’s arm reminded Granny of a possessive pit bull she had once owned. ‘I was born there, you know.’
‘I never knew that,’ Arthur said. ‘I’d always thought you were as Welsh as Gareth Edwards’ arse.’
‘I am really,’ Sheila smiled and cuddled into Nigel. ‘I’ve lived here since I was eight months old, but no London it says on my birth certificate.’
‘A true English rose,’ Nigel said and Sheila giggled.
‘The ring’s lovely,’ Granny wriggled free of Arthur’s grasp.
‘It is,’ Sheila looked at it as though seeing it for the first time. ‘Absolutely stunning. Anyway we get married in ten days and you’re all invited.’
‘Married?’ Granny and Maud exchanged glances. ‘That’s very quick.’
Sheila looked at Granny and simply smiled before replying.
‘We talked about a long engagement,’ she said. ‘But we decided against waiting.’
‘Why wait around at our age,’ Nigel said and it wasn’t a question.
‘Why indeed,’ Arthur laughed.
‘Anyway we must dash,’ Nigel said. ‘There’s such a lot to see. And thank you for the bakestones. I’m sure I’ll enjoy them.’
‘Shit hot they are, bach,’ Arthur said and laughed as he patted his not insignificant stomach.
Nigel smiled, not quite sure what to say to that.
‘Come on then,’ Sheila prompted and tugged on her finance’s arm.
Granny smiled and watched as they walked away and then immediately turned to Maud.
‘Engaged? When did that happen?’
Maud shrugged her shoulders, speechless.
‘I think they make a lovely couple,’ Arthur said.
‘Go back to sleep,’ Granny snapped and slapped her husband across the back of the head.
Stanley Sullivan didn’t know what had come over his wife. She had been preoccupied all morning and it had taken some persuading to get her to even attend the fete. This wasn’t at all like his Edith and it worried him as they worked their way through the crowds.
‘Well attended this year,’ Stan observed but Edith said nothing in reply. Her fac
e held the same dazed expression she’d been wearing all morning. She walked closely behind her husband, but in spirit didn’t seem to be here at all.
‘I think I’ll find Art and sneak off for a pint,’ Stan grumbled.
‘That would be nice,’ Edith said, surprising her husband both by answering and with the answer itself. Usually she forbade her husband from drinking in the afternoon and when he was allowed to partake, such as at the annual village fete, he always received a lecture on not getting drunk and making a fool of himself in front of so many friends and neighbours. It looked like this was going to be the first year when there was no lecture.
Ah well, Stan thought, supposing there could be compensations in his wife’s sullen mood.
They walked on through the crowds, heading for Granny’s cake stall. They had promised to have been here by twelve thirty and it was already gone one. Stan was eager to leave his wife with Granny, let the women to it, while he and Arthur sampled the delights of the beer tent.
‘Look,’ Stan said. ‘It’s Sheila and her new gentleman friend.’
Sheila and Nigel were indeed walking towards them but from the dreamy expression upon their faces Stan didn’t think they had noticed them.
‘Only got eyes for each other, those two,’ when Stan turned to his wife she looked as if she had seen a ghost. She stood there, rigid, staring at Sheila and her new man friend.
‘Are you okay?’ Stan asked his wife for the umpteenth time today and for the umpteenth time he received no answer.
Stan watched as Sheila and her man friend became lost in the crowds and when he turned back his wife was nowhere to be seen.
Now where had she run off to?
He looked around for her but wherever she had gone the crowds had swallowed her up.
Stan shrugged his shoulders and went off in search of Arthur and the beer tent.
Two