‘And you smoke too much,’ Timothy said cheekily, trying to make her smile. Really, he was quite afraid of her at that moment. She looked fierce.
‘And I smoke too much,’ Fanny agreed. ‘But there’s one thing I’ll tell you, and it’s this: learn to be frightened. When you see some magic-type person, a public person, hogging the media to talk about bringing back the birch, and hanging, it’s time to get a little nervous. Because the person who gets beaten or hanged might turn out to be someone you know. Are you with me so far?’
Timothy said, ‘OK so far.’
‘But when that sort of person talks about action groups, and banded-together brotherhoods of citizens, and vigilantes – get terrified! Because the person who gets dragged away in the middle of the night for a flogging might turn out to be you. Yes, you – simply because you’re a decent, normal, pleasant, dim human being. The sort of person who just happens to get in the way of the bully-boys and bully-girls. Do you understand, Timothy?’
‘I thought I was sonny-boy, or Dumbo,’ he said, drawing back from her.
‘No, you’re Timothy and I like you. That’s why I’m lecturing you. Have you understood the lecture?’
He thought about it for a minute, then said, ‘Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t understand how it fits in with Lisa Treadgold. I mean, she’s just … Lisa Treadgold, temporary celebrity.’
‘Is she?’ Fanny said. ‘Is she? Do you really think that?’
‘I don’t know … There are things about her, I admit. That dog. Chocolate wrappings. Boiling water. Even her smile. But nothing fits any other thing. I just don’t know.’
‘Well, think about it till you do,’ Fanny said. She slammed the Cortina into gear and drove back to the Gazette almost in silence. Once she said, ‘Chocolate wrappings?’ Timothy decided not to answer.
But the unanswered question stayed in his mind. Where did Lisa’s chocolate wrappings go?
August. Breakfast time. The Carpenters’ house
‘Of course I’m a proper TV star,’ Mr Carpenter grumbled. ‘Just look at my profile.’ He turned his lined face sideways and stuck out his chin.
‘You’re saggy,’ Beth said. ‘Saggy and baggy. Especially under the eyes. Marmalade, please.’
Mrs Carpenter said to her husband, ‘I don’t know why you put up with her cheek, Edward. If I had spoken to my father like that when I was her age –’
‘I think I’ll be a TV star myself,’ Beth said, ‘I’m just the right age. Pre-teen, I’ll be like that movie-star girl, what’s-her-name, the American one with the smouldering eyes. She made it when she was eleven or twelve or something. So will I. Father won’t, he just appears on telly, sometimes. That’s not the same as being a star, like Lisa Treadgold. Euch! Is there any more toast?’
‘I’m sick of Lisa Treadgold,’ Timothy said. ‘If you want more toast, make it yourself.’
‘You introduced the subject!’ Beth said. ‘You mentioned Lisa Treadgold first, didn’t he, Mum? He’s always mentioning Lisa Treadgold, just because he assisted at a crummy interview for the crummy Gazette! Lisa Treadgold said this, Lisa Treadgold said that!’
Mrs Carpenter said, ‘Do you want another rasher of bacon or something, Edward? You’ve got a long day. Beth, shut up. Timothy, you can’t go to the Gazette with fingernails like that, please scrub them before you leave, thank you very much, no, don’t argue. Bacon, Edward?’
Mr Carpenter said, ‘No, really. There’s a good pub near the site, we’ll all go there for lunch. Unless we hit on something exciting, that is. There’s so much Roman stuff, I can’t imagine why …’
He scratched his chin then turned to Beth and said, ‘The TV people will be there again, you know. Perhaps you’d better find some excuse to stage a personal appearance, Beth! You never know, you might be noticed. Or then again, you might not.’
Beth pulled a face at him. Timothy said, ‘Yes, try it on, Beth! They might have a talent spotter! And you’ve got spots!’
‘I haven’t!’ Beth said – and anxiously felt her face with her fingertips. Timothy chuckled. He’d got her that time.
There was a knocking at the back door and Mac came in. He escorted Beth to school. When there was no school, he still turned up. As usual, he hovered at the door, neither in nor out of the room, carefully not looking at Beth. He said, ‘Good morning,’ and eyed the toast. Beth followed his eyes, picked up a piece of toast and dangled it in front of him. ‘Did he want his second brekkies, then?’ she teased, not all that pleasantly. ‘Was he a greedy lickle boy? Beg for it, then! Come on, sit up and beg!’
Mac grinned uneasily. Timothy said, ‘She’s in one of her moods this morning, Mac. Something to do with spots. She’s got spots, you know. All over.’
Beth clawed at him. Timothy said, ‘Big mauve ones, with yellow bits in the middle!’
Mrs Carpenter said, ‘That’s enough, will everyone please go. Goodbye, Edward. Goodbye, Timothy. Goodbye, everyone.’ She bustled everybody out and stood watching her husband’s long, gum-booted legs folding themselves into the Land Rover. ‘He’s getting very grey,’ she thought.
She looked in the mirror and touched her own hair. No grey. She went about her housework humming.
BURNS AND FLOWERS
It had been Lisa Treadgold at breakfast time: it was Lisa Treadgold in the Gazette offices.
Len Sturgeon was saying, ‘You’re irrational, Fanny – oh good morning, Timothy, nice of you to turn up – irrational. You agree, don’t you, that delinquents and criminals get away with murder; but then when someone like Lisa Treadgold comes along and says, “Let’s do something about it!” you say, “I can’t stand her, I don’t like her, I don’t know why but I just don’t fancy her!” I mean, that’s irrational, you don’t make sense!’
‘Just what I was saying!’ Timothy interrupted. ‘My sister Beth’s like that too. She says, “I can’t stand her, she’s phoney, I loathe her!” Yet when the yobs thump someone –’
‘Coffee, laddie,’ said Len Sturgeon. ‘We’ll consider your invaluable opinions when you’ve made coffee.’
Timothy made coffee and frowned. Not because of Len Sturgeon – he liked and understood Len. It was his thoughts about Lisa Treadgold that worried him. Why was Fanny so vicious about Lisa? Why did Beth hate her so much? With Fanny, it could be just jealousy. With Beth, it couldn’t be; with Beth, it was just plain cat-and-dog enmity. Of course, Beth was barmy.
The electric kettle – it had been boiling furiously without Timothy noticing – went POINK! and spat out its plug. Oh Lord, Timothy thought, I hope Len didn’t hear. Nervously, he tried to push the plug back into its socket. It went in all right but then pushed itself out again.
‘Really, laddie!’ Len said. He had ghosted in to stand behind Timothy. His eyebrows waggled sarcastically. ‘While I show you how to mend electric kettles,’ he said, ‘you can tell me the names of all the typefaces in this advertisement. Proceed.’
‘The headline is Cooper Black,’ Timothy said hopefully.
‘Wrong,’ said Len. He was bent over the kettle, forcing the plug in. ‘Wrong, but a good try.’
There was a spitting bang as the plug in the wall short-circuited and spat blue fire. Len jumped back, frightened.
‘Wrong,’ Timothy said, cheekily imitating the man’s voice. ‘Wrong, but a good try’.
For a minute or so, Lisa Treadgold and everything else was forgotten as Len Sturgeon stalked Timothy, trying to back him into a corner near the big wastepaper basket. He would put Tim head first in the basket, if he caught him.
But then Fanny Bishop came in. She had been to the florist’s and carried a large bunch of flowers wrapped in paper and cellophane. ‘All right, you two,’ she said. ‘Playtime is over. Back to business. Follow-up to the Treadgold story. Who’s going to see to it? Any volunteers?’
Len looked with distaste at the flowers and said, ‘Ah. Well, no, I am particularly busy.’
‘So I saw. Someone’s got to do it,’ Fanny said.
&
nbsp; ‘Do what? What do you mean, follow-up?’ Timothy asked.
‘Mona Lisa,’ Fanny said. ‘Flowers, good wishes, how are the burns, that sort of thing. The Gazette really cares,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘It had better,’ she added. ‘There’s a lot of mileage to be got out of Treadgold. Right, who takes the flowers to her?’
‘You,’ said Len.
‘I told you, I can’t stand her. Come on, Len, be nice.’ She pushed the flowers at him. He sat down at his desk and started typing very fast. ‘Too busy,’ he said. He read out what he had typed: ‘Sex-Change Vicar in Mercy Bid Dash.’
‘That leaves you,’ Fanny said, fixing Timothy with a hard eye. ‘Go on. It’s all experience. On your bike. And don’t crumple the tender blossoms.’
‘I’m supposed to be learning reporting, journalism –’
‘And now you’re getting a botany lesson,’ Fanny said, ‘for free. If she’s gone to London or something, bring the flowers back. Understand? I could use them in my flat.’
So for the second time, Timothy found himself on his way to the home of Lisa Treadgold. But this time on a bicycle.
On the way, he met Mac and Beth, also on bicycles.
‘Flowers!’ Mac said in a squeaky falsetto. ‘Oh, how well they suit you! How sweetly pretty!’
Timothy muttered, ‘Shut up,’ and tried to ride on. Beth wheeled across him and prevented his escape. ‘I thought you were a reporter, not a delivery boy,’ she said. ‘No, wait …! Flowers! Who for? Lisa Treadgold, of course! I’m coming too! So’s Mac!’
Timothy tried to prevent them but failed. So all three of them were at the front door of Lisa Treadgold’s mansion when Timothy rang the bell.
ALL FALL DOWN
He rang once and, in the distance, all the dogs started barking. Nobody came to answer the bell.
He tried again and yet again and heard the thumping footsteps of Bunny, the housekeeper/secretary.
When she opened the door, her face was shinier and her eyes more goggling than ever. Her mouth opened and closed.
Timothy said, ‘Flowers. For Miss Treadgold. From the Gazette. You probably don’t remember, but I’m from the Gazette, too. I was here the other day –’
‘Flowers,’ said Bunny dazedly. ‘Flowers, yes. The Gazette … Oh, dear.’
‘We don’t want to come in, or anything,’ Timothy said (‘Oh yes we do!’ Beth said fiercely in his ear), ‘but we all wanted to know – all of us at the Gazette, I mean – if Miss Treadgold’s all right. The hot water, the burns …’
Bunny’s staring eyes were still fixed on the flowers; and still her mouth kept opening and closing. At last she managed to say, ‘Flowers … yes, she’s quite all right. She’s wearing a long skirt, you can’t see anything. She’s quite all right …’
Then, like a factory chimney coming down, Bunny collapsed on herself and ended in a clumsy limbs-and-body mass on the floor.
Beth reacted instantly. ‘Inside!’ she hissed. ‘Close the front door!’ Her eyes glittered. ‘Oh come on!’ she said to Timothy, digging her fingers into his arm, ‘You’re supposed to be a journalist! And this could be a story! Come on, come on, get her up! Water, splash some water on her!’
They dragged and carried the half-conscious Bunny through the house. Beth’s eyes darted sideways all the time, taking in every detail. ‘A-tishoo, a-tishoo, all fall down!’ she mumbled. ‘Where do we go?’
‘Over there,’ Timothy grunted. ‘Conservatory. Gosh, what a weight!’
Before they reached the conservatory, Bunny came to. For a second, she stared wildly from face to face. Looking at Timothy, she said, ‘Gazette?’
‘That’s right,’ Timothy told her. ‘I was here with a real reporter, I’m just a –’
‘Oh, I remember all that,’ Bunny said wearily. ‘Yes, flowers for Miss Treadgold. How nice. She had a late night last night – the TV personality dinner.’ She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her thumb. ‘I gave her breakfast in bed,’ she continued. ‘She slept late, you see. I took it up just now.’ Again, the dazed expression clouded her face. ‘Just now, I can’t seem to remember what happened just now, I can’t seem to remember …’ She shook her head.
They helped her to a chair, made her comfortable with cushions and wiped her brow with water from the fountain.
As soon as the water touched her, she gave a small hoarse scream – jerked in the chair – cried, ‘No! That’s impossible! No, no, no! I don’t remember that!’
Then she became unconscious again.
‘Don’t do that!’ Timothy said. He was trying to stop Beth flooding Bunny with water. The small girl, her mouth set like a trap, was trying to shock the big girl back to life. It took a long time to bring her round.
When she was conscious, Bunny sat up, pulled at her soaked sweater and looked miserable. ‘Tell us what happened!’ Beth whispered urgently in Bunny’s ear. She whispered because she had heard sounds from upstairs. First, the barking of hysterical dogs; then, light, fast footsteps; finally, Lisa Treadgold’s clear, pleasant voice calling, ‘Bunny, where are you?’
‘Keep quiet!’ Beth whispered to Timothy and Mac. ‘Ssh!’
Lisa Treadgold’s footsteps suddenly became sharp and ringing as they left the stair-carpet and met the marble-like tiles of the hall by the front door. ‘Bunny…? Bunny! Oh, blast, I’ll get the car myself …’
The front door opened and slammed shut. Now Lisa’s footsteps crunched on gravel. Then they were gone.
Bunny said, ‘I ought to be out there to see her off …’
‘You stay here with us!’ Beth said sharply. ‘Tell us what – no, wait a minute, why have the dogs stopped barking?’
‘Oh, the dogs …’ Bunny said. She still looked puffy, miserable, damp and lost as she sat on the floor. ‘I don’t know, the dogs don’t seem to like her,’ she said. ‘They always make a fuss when she passes their door. I mean, I have to lock them in … but usually they’re outdoors … Oh, Lord …’
Beth, helped by Mac and Timothy, got Bunny to her feet. ‘You’ve soaked me!’ Bunny said, pulling at her sweater. ‘I don’t suppose it matters, it will dry out … I don’t know what came over me –’
‘I do!’ Beth said. ‘You were frightened! So frightened you passed out! Bunny, tell us: what frightened you?’
Bunny said, ‘I’ve got to walk the dogs, it’s their time!’ Then, suddenly, she collapsed again, this time into a chair, and burst into noisy tears. ‘I didn’t see it!’ she howled. ‘I couldn’t have done!’
And then Beth was bent over her, pulling at her, and Timothy and Mac were shamefacedly saying, ‘Beth, leave her alone!’ and trying to disengage Beth’s claws from Bunny’s sweater; and Bunny was saying, ‘It was a trick of the light! I thought I saw it but I couldn’t have!’; and then she was hysterical and saying things that made no sense; and then the front door bell rang and it was all over. Bunny jerked to her feet and said, ‘Oh Lord, the video cassettes!’ and ran to the door.
There was a motorcycle messenger standing outside, jigging his booted feet and whistling through his teeth. ‘Here you are, love!’ he said – thrust a parcel at Bunny without looking at her – and was gone in a blatter of exhaust.
Bunny stared at the parcel and said, ‘Oh gosh, she was supposed to take these with her, I forgot to tell her, oh Lord, she’ll be furious!’ She was crying again, damply, no longer hysterical. Beth bit her lip and glared, knowing that the parcel was all that mattered to Bunny now.
Timothy said, ‘Why don’t you phone for another motorbike messenger and have him deliver the stuff?’ Bunny said, ‘Brilliant! Oh, why didn’t I think of that!’ She rushed to the telephone and made complicated calls.
Timothy looked at Mac and shrugged. ‘Better leave,’ he said. Beth followed reluctantly. She wanted to stay and dig her little claws deeper into Bunny.
They closed the front door behind them, mounted their bikes and looked back at the big house.
‘Well!’ Mac said. ‘What was all that
about, do you think? What frightened Bunny?’
Timothy said, ‘Who knows? One of life’s great unsolved mysteries.’ He prepared to ride off but was stopped by Beth’s voice.
‘Wait a minute!’ she demanded. ‘Haven’t you guessed what happened? Do you really mean you don’t know?’
‘Course I don’t. Nor do you.’
‘But you must know!’ Beth stormed. ‘I mean, it’s so obvious! You can’t be that dim! Mac, tell him!’
‘Tell him what?’ Mac said. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Beth rolled her eyes disgustedly and said, ‘Stupid!’ She almost spat the word. Then she rode off, her back very straight, not looking back. ‘So stupid!’ they heard her say as she disappeared round a bend in the drive.
Mac laughed uncertainly and said, ‘Good old Beth. What’s she on about, do you think?’ Timothy did not answer. His head was full of foggy thoughts. He rode off frowning, not looking where he was going. He nearly rode into the iron drive gates.
Timothy’s typed notes that night
I get embarrassed: Beth doesn’t. That’s the difference. I mean, she takes everything in while I’m just standing there wondering if I’m doing the right thing. She’d make a better reporter than me. She’d get a front-page story out of an oyster …
But getting back to today – what did Beth think and see? What have Mac and I missed?
This afternoon, I cornered Beth and said, ‘All right, I’m dim, but what did you mean this morning when you said it was all obvious about Bunny?’
Beth: ‘Oh, you’re just stupid, I don’t want to talk to you,’ etc. etc. I kept on at her.
Having told me for the umpteenth time how stupid I am, Beth said, ‘You just don’t listen, do you? Didn’t you hear what Bunny said, when we’d just arrived?’ I said no.
Beth glared and said, ‘Bunny told us that Lisa Treadgold had a late night, surely you remember that?’
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