by Ann Purser
Now she worked in the village shop, efficient and relied upon totally by the ageing shopkeepers, Mr. and Mrs. Carr. They were childless, and had taken to Sharon straight away. “Like a child to us, she is,” they said to their friends. “Heaven-sent, under the circumstances.”
Sharon was uninterested in the concerns of her peers. She didn’t much like the taste of alcohol, resisted with ease the temptation of drugs, and found clubbing disappointingly noisy and boring. But she did have an addiction. This was innocent enough, on the surface, and merely made her mother and father smile. Romantic fiction filled her leisure hours. She borrowed four such novels at a time from the Tresham Library, and read compulsively. “Just wait until she has a boyfriend of her own,” said her mother, “and then she won’t need those. Meantime, they’ll do her no harm.”
Which, of course, they did not. It was the other books she had to conceal in her library bag. Richly written tales of sex and violent crime lurked at the bottom of her wardrobe, well concealed behind her shoes. The latest, an account—satisfactorily dramatized—of Madeleine Smith, the Victorian Glasgow girl who poisoned her treacherous lover by anointing herself with arsenic-laden cream and then encouraging him to lick it off, had caused her one or two tumultuous dreams. The wily Scottish girl had somehow escaped punishment, and Sharon’s imagination filled in the gaps left by the writer’s decorum. But she’d nearly finished that one, and this afternoon was off on the Tresham bus to find more stories to feed her habit.
“Will you manage all right?” she asked her elderly boss.
“O’course we will. Don’t miss the bus, now,” he said.
Mrs. Carr added with a chuckle, “You run along, Sharon. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” As if Sharon would! Their little guardian angel, they described her to themselves. They dreaded the day when some man would recognize her worth and carry her away from them. But for the moment, they were grateful for their good luck. They had been the village shopkeepers for nearly forty years, and could not manage without her.
On her way to the bus stop, a car passed her slowly, and then pulled up by the path. When she drew level, the window was wound down, and Sandy’s cheerful face looked up at her. “Need a lift, Sharon?” he said. “I’m on my way to Tresham.”
“Goodness, that’s kind of you!” said Sharon, her face scarlet.
“Hop in, then,” said Sandy.
“You’ve been poorly, I hear,” Sharon said, when she had settled herself. Her skirt was shortish, and she tugged it down, but it would not go far enough to conceal a very appealing pair of knees.
Sandy shifted his eyes away from them, and said, “Oh, it was nothing much. Something I ate, I reckon.”
“Her up at the Hall?” said Sharon with a smile. “That party? Them tiddly bits were a bit off, I expect. She puts ‘em in the freezer if they’re left over, then out they come again next time round! That’d be it. The tiddly bits.”
She laughed now, and Sandy glanced across at her. Her profile was very pretty, he realized. Pity about the eye. “Next time up at the Hall I’ll know to abstain,” he said, and they both laughed. The sun blinded Sandy momentarily, and he reached across Sharon to pick up his sunglasses. “Oops!” he said, as they dropped into her lap. She handed them to him, and he fumbled with her hand, his eyes on the road. “Sorry!” he said, and finally got hold of them.
“Now we’re fine,” he said, speeding up.
Sharon stared straight ahead, and wished the journey could go on for ever.
IN HER OFFICE OVERLOOKING THE ROAD, LOIS STOOD AT the window, thinking about Jamie and his posh girlfriend, and Derek and Gran, and what would be the best way of sorting it out. She had decided that doing nothing at all would be the best policy, when her eye was caught by Sandy Mackerras’s car, picking up speed on its way to Tresham. Somebody was in the car with him … was it Sharon Miller? Well, that would be a turn-up! A reversal, really. Jamie and Annabelle … Sandy and Sharon … Wouldn’t it have been better for Jamie and Sharon to …
“Lois!” It was Gran, and sounded urgent. As Lois went through to the kitchen, she saw her mother sitting in a chair, doubled over and moaning. “Mum! What on earth’s the matter?”
“Sick,” was all Gran could manage before getting up and rushing away to the lavatory. When she returned, her face was pale and drawn.
“Mum! Better go and lie down. I’ll bring you a hottie—come on, I’ll help you up.” They just made it to the top of the stairs, when Gran had to rush into the bathroom to throw up again.
“Right,” said Lois, who had heard from Hazel about the Sandy Mackerras episode, “I’m ringing the doctor right now.” She settled her mother in bed, and went down to telephone. “She’s not a young person,” she said firmly to the receptionist, who, as usual, said couldn’t Mrs. Weedon manage to come into the surgery? “There’s no way I’m bringing her down,” Lois added. “And it’s urgent. I’ll expect the doctor shortly.”
The surgery was a client of New Brooms and they all knew Lois Meade. A message was sent through to the doctor out on his rounds, and within an hour of Lois’s call, he was there. “What nonsense!” Gran said. “No need to send for you at all. Just eaten something, I expect.” But the doctor told Lois not to let her mother get up for at least twenty-four hours, and gave her a number of other instructions out of Gran’s hearing.
“Is it a bug going round?” Lois asked. The doctor shrugged. “Well, there was that Sandy Mackerras,” Lois continued. “He was throwing up all night, the vicar said.”
“Yes, well,” said the doctor, uncommunicative as ever. “Goodbye, Mrs. Meade. I’ll look in again tomorrow.” He strode off down the path, and Lois shrugged. All right, then, she said to herself, don’t break the Official Secrets Act. She went back into the house, and rushed upstairs as she heard Gran heaving again.
SANDY MACKERRAS PULLED UP OUTSIDE THE LIBRARY in Tresham, and Sharon struggled to let herself out. He leaned over her, rather longer than necessary, and opened the door. He caught a whiff of a flowery scent, and then she was out on the pavement, leaning down to thank him profusely for the lift. “A pleasure, Sharon,” he said, “always a pleasure to give a lovely girl a lift!” She blushed again, and dropped a library book. Confused and burning, she finally reached the library door and disappeared. Was real life catching up with her fictional world at last? She handed in her books with a flourish, and ignored the librarian’s raised eyebrows as he noticed the titles of some of them.
The estate agent’s office was busy with potential house-buyers when Sandy walked through to his desk. A housing boom had been a godsend to the proliferation of agents in Tresham. This particular one was known to be pushy. Sandy fitted in very well, and had quickly developed the agent-speak which had just worked its magic on Sharon. Flattery, hand-in-hand with exaggeration, was his stock-in-trade, and he loved it.
“Morning, everyone,” he said bouncily, and turned his charming smile on to the first customer.
AT THE VICARAGE, BRIAN ROLLINSON LOOKED THROUGH the door into Sandy’s room and saw chaos. He sighed. It wouldn’t do for Hazel Thornbull to see this mess. He began to clear the clothes and magazines, and sort them into tidy piles. Everything you would expect to find in a young man’s room, he thought. No surprises. He picked up a photograph from the table by the bed. It was Sandy’s mother and father in earlier years, smiling at the camera in the first flush of a new marriage. Gerald had been such a handsome fellow. That smile. The pain he had almost forgotten stabbed Brian once more, and he put down the photograph quickly. Glancing round the room and approving it as presentable for Hazel, he left and went downstairs to his study to immerse himself in Sunday’s sermon.
But his mind kept returning to Sandy and his parents. When had he first met them? Must have been after college, while he was studying accountancy. He put down his pen and stared out of the window. The Tate Gallery, that was it. He’d dropped in to pass away an hour or so, waiting to meet a friend from college, and he had stood in front of a painting
next to a young man who was muttering to himself. “Excuse me?” Brian had said, thinking maybe he was being addressed. “Oh, sorry,” Gerald had replied. “Just talking to myself. Trying to explain it! Bit weird, isn’t it?”
After that, they’d walked on together, and then had a cup of tea in the café. Instant rapport, it had been, and they’d kept in touch. Brian had been best man at the wedding, and now he remembered his mixed feelings as he saw his friend become a twosome, more or less out of his reach.
His telephone rang, and he sighed again. “Hello?” he said.
“Sandy here. Forgot to tell you … I’ll be out to supper tonight. OK? See you later. Bye!”
Disappointment drove Brian out to the kitchen, where he cut a thick slice of bread, spread it lavishly with butter and honey, and ate it quickly, despising himself.
ELEVEN
“BILL?”
“Hello, Mrs. M.”
“New customer—Trimbles, estate agent’s in Tresham.” Lois had cornered the market in local estate agents some years ago, and this lot had sprung up recently with the explosion of house prices. “Not where Sandy works, you’ll be pleased to hear,” she added, and thought she heard an answering grunt. “I’ve signed them up for regular cleaning. Just the job for you, I thought. Starting after the office closes, but still a couple of long-haired blondes floating about. I’m going over this afternoon. Like you to come with me for a preliminary tour around their extensive premises.”
“Extensive? You mean that two-roomed job in Cross Street? That’s Trimbles, isn’t it? Is that what they said?”
“Yes, well, they are estate agents, Bill. You know, desirable property, spacious reception rooms, sweeping lawns, etc., etc.?”
“Ha ha,” said Bill, who was very fond of his boss. “Right. See you there, or will you pick me up? I’ll be finished at old Madam’s around four.”
“I’ll collect you from home about half-past. See you then.”
When Lois arrived at Bill’s cottage, it was Rebecca who opened the door. “Hello, Mrs. M, Bill’s just on his way. The client kept him cleaning the silver. Family arriving tomorrow, or something. But he rang and said he was just leaving.” She stood aside, and Lois went into the cottage, noticing as always the pleasant smell of cleanliness. “No thanks, no time,” she said, refusing Rebecca’s offer of tea.
“Right …” There was a pause. The two of them had little in common, though friendly enough, and conversation flagged for a moment. Then Rebecca said, “Are you coming to sing in the choir with us? Bill’s joined, and he’s got a really nice voice.”
Lois shook her head. “Not me, Rebecca,” she said. “Voice like a foghorn. And anyway, I’ve not got the time.”
“Bill says he’s heard you singing, when you didn’t know anyone was around, and it was good. It’s only an hour a week.”
“And church on Sundays. I reckon the bells’d crash to the ground if they saw me comin’ in. No, our Jamie’s going, and he likes it. But then he’s musical all round, so no wonder. Says that Sandy is OK. What d’you think of him?”
To her surprise, Rebecca turned away, her colour rising. “Oh, he’s all right,” she said. Then she added with obvious relief, “There’s Bill! Now you won’t have to wait …”
Spinning along to Tresham in the white van with New Brooms in gold lettering on the sides, and “We sweep cleaner!” emblazoned across the rear doors, Lois wondered about Rebecca’s obvious unease. Something to do with Sandy Mackerras? Probably fancied him. He was quite attractive in a freckled, dodgy-quick kind of way. Bill’d better watch out. Rebecca was quite a catch. Well dug-in at Waltonby school, own cottage, independent.
“Penny for ‘em,” said Bill, glancing across at Lois.
“I was just thinking you’d better watch that Sandy bloke. He’s after all the girls, I hear,” said Lois, who was not one for the subtle approach. The vehemence of Bill’s reply startled her.
“Him! Oily little sod, with his ‘teeny bit louder’ and ‘lovely tone, Mrs. T-J,’ and his eyes undressing my Rebecca every time he looks in her direction! Don’t talk to me about darling Sandy!”
Lois laughed as they turned into the car park in Cross Street. “So you like him! But you sing in the choir too, don’t you? Rebecca said …”
“Got to keep an eye on the bugger, haven’t I,” growled Bill.
“Well,” said Lois, opening the van door, “you could learn a lot about estate agents from this job. Come on …”
“Lead on,” said Bill, and followed her out of the car park and into the street.
GRAN SAT BY THE FIRE, HOPING LOIS WOULD BE HOME soon. She had claimed she was feeling a great deal better, and had insisted on getting up and coming down to make a cake. But when she stood in the kitchen with ingredients lined up on the table in front of her, her legs felt weak, and she had to sit down for a while. She abandoned cake-making, and sat and dozed in front of a television programme with the sound turned down. The moving, smiling figures were company. She felt a little scared. Never ill, she couldn’t remember when she had felt so bad. How could she have picked up a bug? Apart from that Sandy, there was no one else sick in the village. The shop was the clearing house for all such news, and old Mrs. Carr had not mentioned a bug going round.
Indigestion, she told herself. Something I’ve always had, on and off. Just a bit worse, this time. Maybe get some new stuff from the chemist’s when she went in to Tresham.
“Mum?” Lois was back, and Gran surfaced, making a big effort to smile as her daughter peered at her anxiously. “Shouldn’t you still be in bed?”
“I’m fine,” said Gran. “Shall I make a cup of tea?”
“You stay right there. I’m making tea for a day or two. An’ supper and breakfast. Here, I’ll turn the telly up. It’s your favourite rubbish.”
Gran did not smile, and because she didn’t have a smart retort, Lois worried that her mother was far from well.
TWELVE
JAMIE MEADE WALKED ALONG THE ROAD TOWARDS THE Hall, whistling. He’d arranged to pick up Annabelle to go for a walk around the fields. She was the best thing that had happened to him for a long time, he thought. Didn’t seem to mind that he had no wheels, no money and none of the lifestyle to which she must be accustomed.
He’d first met her last summer, when the village fete had been up at the Hall as usual. Some daft newcomers had decided to have sideshows like in the old days. Or olde dayes. “Bowling for a pig,” one of them had proposed. With a sly grin, the local pig farmer—John Thornbull, married to cleaner Hazel—had said he’d donate a young pig if they’d come up and catch it. John’d got some of his friends round to watch the spectacle, and they’d watched for a satisfying hour as the newcomer and his son had slipped and slithered round the pen. Then they’d taken pity on them, and had it tethered in a couple of minutes. “Reckon they wished they’d never heard of the ‘olde dayes’ by the time we’d caught the bugger,” John had chuckled to Hazel over tea.
Jamie smiled now, in recollection. Still, the best thing about that fete had been meeting Annabelle. He’d been doing well at a darts game when he’d seen her, standing watching, all by herself. She had smiled straight at him, and clapped vigorously when he’d won. A blustery wind had taken Jamie’s baseball cap and deposited it at Annabelle’s feet, and that was that.
The gates of the Hall were open, and Jamie turned in and walked swiftly up the drive. In spite of the pleasurable anticipation of seeing Annabelle, he had the customary sinking feeling at approaching the stately mansion. God, I hope Mrs. T-J is out, he thought. But she never was, not when he was expected, anyway. What did she think? That he was goin’ to drag her precious granddaughter upstairs to one of the four-posters and have his wicked way with her? Well, maybe. But it certainly wouldn’t be without Annabelle’s enthusiastic encouragement.
“Hi!” he shouted as he saw his love’s fair head leaning out of an upstairs window. “Let down your hair, Rapunzel! I’m comin’ up!”
“What?” she ye
lled. “You stupid, or something?” She disappeared, and he walked round to the back of the house, by which time she had emerged, pink and fresh as a daisy. “Love you,” she said, kissing him softly.
“Annabelle!” The voice was harsh, and came from inside the kitchen.
“Oh God, it’s Gran,” said Jamie.
“No, it’s Grandmother,” said Annabelle, and they both disappeared swiftly up the path and into the woods behind the house before Mrs. T-J could catch up with them. As a result, she was in a bad mood by the time the vicar arrived to talk to her about his ideas for a Requiem Mass to be sung by the church choir on All Souls Day. This was such a ludicrous ambition, that she wondered about his judgement. Perhaps it was not his idea at all, but that of his … his … his what? Not his son, or nephew, apparently. His godson, she knew. She planned to inform the vicar in no uncertain terms what she thought of the Requiem proposal.
By the time Brian Rollinson arrived, she was restored to her usual battling form. She led the attack, already extremely displeased by young Mackerras’s lack of respect at his first appearance before her choir. “So what’s all this nonsense?” she continued. “Do you really expect a few squeaking women and a couple of growlers to put on a performance of the Faure Requiem? I cannot think you are serious.”
Brian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She had deliberately motioned him to take a spindly legged ladies’ chair, hopelessly inadequate for his attenuated frame.