The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry

by Ann Purser

  “Like sheep on their backs in a meadow,” said Roy.

  “Exactly,” said Ivy.

  They wrapped themselves up in scarves and gloves and woolly hats, and set off, Roy in his trundle and Ivy with a stout stick to keep her steady. They were halfway up to the cemetery when they approached a cottage facing directly onto the pavement. Suddenly the door flew open, sending out a shower of dirty snow, and a woman emerged. She saw them just in time, and grabbed the handle of the door behind her.

  “Oops! Look where you’re going, you two! You should be safely by the fire at your age, you know. These pavements are dangerous.”

  “Susan! Just mind your manners! These two kind people live here, and they don’t expect strange women to jump out in front of them. Sorry, folks! Are you hurt?”

  “Well, I’m off, Alf. I’ll be back; you can be sure of that.” Susan Lowe stormed off down the lane, slipping and sliding from side to side and only just remaining upright.

  “Good riddance, I say,” said Alf, smiling at Roy. “Women! Pity we can’t do without them.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree,” said Roy gently. “My name is Roy Goodman, and we have met before. At the bus stop. This is my fiancée, Miss Ivy Beasley. And you, if I’m not much mistaken, are Alfred Lowe.”

  “Bless me! If it isn’t old Roy! I only just heard tell you were living in Barrington. After all these years, eh? We must get together and have some reminiscing. But not now, old chap. Time you were getting back. Your fiancée looks blue with cold. Good day to both of you.” He turned back into his cottage and shut the door.

  “So that is the nasty old man? The notorious Alfred Lowe?” said Ivy. “If you ask me, he is a polite and pleasant person. Apart from his views on women, of course. Ready to go back now? We can look for your ancestors in the cemetery some other day. What a useful idea of yours to come up here! If I didn’t know you were not a scheming old codger, I’d think you planned it purposely, in the hope we’d meet your new friend Alfred Lowe.”

  “Never crossed my mind, beloved,” answered Roy. “Hold on to the trundle if that would make you feel more secure. Look, there’s blue sky over the woods! I can guarantee this slushy stuff will be gone by morning.”

  They arrived safely back at Springfields, only to find that a perfectly audible row was going on in the office between Miss Pinkney and Mrs. Spurling, who had returned unexpectedly to find two of her residents out in the raw air of a winter’s afternoon, unaccompanied and still not returned.

  “We’re back, Pinkers!” shouted Ivy as they passed the office door. This flew open and Mrs. Spurling came out. “And where do you think you two have been?” she demanded.

  “Up to the cemetery,” said Roy, and Ivy knew at once what Mrs. Spurling’s reply would be.

  She obliged. “You’ll be up there permanently, if you don’t take notice of Springfields’ rules,” she almost shouted. “Now go and warm up. I’ll send Katya with a nice hot cup of tea.”

  “Whisky and hot water, please,” said Ivy. “That’s for Roy. I’ll have a glass of hot ginger ale and lemon. Now, if you will excuse us, we will go and change our socks.”

  Ten

  AS ROY HAD predicted, the next morning dawned with a clear blue sky, bright sunshine, and not a sign of the dark snow clouds that had gathered over the village.

  “There was a frost last night, Ivy,” he said, as she sat down at the breakfast table. “I wonder if the roads are suitable for us to take a taxi to Thornwell? We need to go to a jeweller to decide on a wedding ring. And then we can have our usual coffee. I advise boots and warmest clothing. The sunlight is deceptive at this time of the year. Not much warmth in it. But do you know, beloved, I caught a smell of spring in the air when I opened my bedroom window this morning! Farmers have sensitive noses, and I haven’t lost the skill.”

  “I should think pig farmers would be glad to have none of that particular skill! At Ringford, just behind my house, there was a man who kept pigs intensively, under cover. Never let out in the field. And turkeys at Christmastime. The stink! It was enough to turn you up, I can tell you.”

  “You have no romance in your soul, Ivy dear. After breakfast I shall ring for a taxi, and hope that the sight of a wedding ring will erase all thoughts of pig muck.”

  Ivy roared with laughter. “That’s more like it,” she said. “Good honest pig—”

  “Good morning, Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman. How are we this fine morning? No ill effects from your adventure yesterday, I trust?” Mrs. Spurling managed a small smile, but her tone was sour.

  Ivy drew herself up in her seat and said if Mrs. Spurling considered a short walk up to the village cemetery an adventure, she must have led a very sheltered life. Roy attempted to smooth things down by saying that the bacon had been particularly tasty this morning, but Mrs. Spurling stalked off, high dudgeon in every step.

  • • •

  THEIR USUAL TAXI, driven by a Presley fan named Elvis, was adapted to carry Roy in his trundle, and arrived promptly at ten o’clock. “Didn’t expect you two to be off shopping this morning. We were deep in snow yesterday!”

  “Nearly all gone now, though,” Roy said. “Don’t forget I was a working farmer, Elvis. The world doesn’t stop turning for a few flakes of snow.”

  “Some special reason for going into town this morning?” Elvis had been driving Ivy and Roy around the county for a long time now, and considered them as special friends. He loved the idea of this late romance, and had encouraged it from the time Ivy, spiky and lonely, had arrived in Springfields.

  “No, nothing special,” said Ivy, winking at Roy.

  “Very special,” said Roy, refusing to be silenced. “We shall be buying Ivy’s wedding ring. She has very pretty hands, and deserves the best.”

  Ivy looked down at her own hands, and thought that Roy must be blind. They were small, certainly, but knobbly and veined. Still, if he loved them, that was all that mattered.

  “Wow! Have you named the day yet, you two lovebirds?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Elvis,” said Ivy. “But perhaps it would be a good thing to ask you to reserve May the fifth? We haven’t got invitations out yet, but you’re on the list. And we might need you for the honeymoon. Yet to be arranged.”

  “Funny you should mention that date,” Elvis said, after thanking them profusely. “The office had a call this morning from a Mr. Wright, wanting to book a taxi for May five, for a wedding in Barrington church. Could that be yours?”

  Ivy and Roy exchanged glances. “That’s right,” said Ivy. “He’s Roy’s nephew, and going to be best man. Steven and Wendy Wright, that’s them.”

  “Your nephew? Well, bless me,” said Elvis. “He used to be one of my regular customers, a year or so ago. Done for speeding, doing a hundred miles an hour on the motorway, and had his licence taken away for several months. I taxied him all over the country. Funny bloke, if you don’t mind my saying so. Never said a word, all the time I was driving him. He used to get in, tell me to turn off me radio, open up his newspaper, and disappear behind it until we reached his office. One of them big furniture stores out of town. Still, I expect you know that, Mr. Goodman?”

  “I really don’t know much about him,” said Roy. “He’s my late sister’s son, and my only living relation. Well, close relation, that is. He comes to see me twice a year.”

  “His wife was always very polite and nice,” said Elvis. “Always thanked me when I brought him home. Pity you haven’t got someone a bit jollier, Mr. Goodman. And since you haven’t asked, I’m offering to be understudy to your nephew, should anything happen to him.”

  “Done,” said Roy. “Though I reckon Steven has had plenty of experience in looking after himself. I remember my sister telling me that as a young lad he was always sailing a bit too close to the wind. Anyway, we shall see. Now here we are. My favourite old jeweller. Been here in Thornwell for centuries, literally.”

  “When shall I pick you up again? Are you having your usual coffee?”


  Ivy and Roy were unloaded carefully, and waved as Elvis drove off.

  “Come along, now, dearest,” said Roy. “Let’s enjoy ourselves.” He parked his trundle and took Ivy’s arm. He could manage short distances with the help of a stick, and made the most of this, determined not to be wheelchair bound for good.

  The jeweller was a tubby, round-faced man with half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose. His sparse grey hair was carefully combed forward over the top of his head, and he greeted them with a chuckle and a sparkle in his blue eyes.

  “Good morning, Roy,” he said. “I got your message, and I must say I am extremely excited by your news. And this is—?”

  “Miss Ivy Beasley. My dear, this is Oliver Beconsfield. His family have been here since—when, Oliver?”

  “Seventeen ninety-eight. I hasten to add that I myself have not been here that long!”

  Ivy shook hands over the counter, and thought she had never seen anyone in her long life so like she imagined Charles Dickens’s Mister Cheeryble.

  Wedding rings of all sizes, shapes, and precious metals were brought out for Ivy to study. She spent a long time looking at them, shutting herself out of the conversation between Roy and Mr. Beconsfield. Finally, rejecting all but one, she turned to Roy.

  “This will do very nicely,” she said. She handed a plain gold band to Roy and he smiled. “I knew as much,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “A good plain ring in the best gold. My Ivy, Oliver, my old pal, is the most sensible, practical woman I ever met. Such a pity I didn’t find her sooner! She’d have made an excellent farmer’s wife.”

  “You were not short of candidates, if I remember correctly,” Oliver Beconsfield replied with a knowing smile. “Even came to me for an engagement ring, didn’t you? You must have escaped that one! But now this lovely lady has captured your heart.”

  Roy coloured and looked extremely uncomfortable. “Our memories play us tricks, don’t you find, Oliver?”

  “Well, mine don’t,” said Ivy, “and I seem to remember we plan to have a coffee in our usual café. Let’s be off, then, Roy,” she added, and took his arm.

  Then she turned back to address the jeweller. “I expect you say this rubbish to all the couples who come in for rings, don’t you? Well, it’s all very well, and much appreciated, but now I’ve chosen, not only a ring but a husband. So I’ll say good day to you, Mr. Beconsfield, and thank you for your help.”

  • • •

  GUS HAD ALSO ventured into town this morning, reluctantly, as it happened, since when he looked out of his window and saw the wintry landscape, he put on an extra jersey and piled up logs on his fire, planning a cosy day indoors with Whippy. But then he recollected his intention to research Roman Catholic marriage laws, and as his computer had crashed and the man who promised to fix it had not turned up, he decided to go into town and do some ferreting in the library. At least he would have something to report to Ivy and Roy at their next meeting.

  The library was warm, and the librarian friendly and attractive, and Gus sat down with the necessary books chosen for him. After more than an hour at the library computer and checking facts in hefty books, he sat back in his chair and thought.

  The relevant facts to emerge were, one, that the Catholic Church regards its marriages as made in the sight of God, never to be torn asunder. And two, that any attempt to divorce and remarry would be lengthy and difficult. “So if I was a Roman Catholic,” Gus said aloud, “my first marriage in church would be a union, never to be dissolved by anyone except God. And that’s what old Alf is saying to his wife, Susan.”

  “Excuse me,” said a familiar voice, “are you needing some help?”

  The attractive librarian leaned over Gus’s shoulder. “Have you found some useful information? I know it is a complicated subject. Are you researching for yourself?”

  “No, not for me. I’m not Catholic, and my first marriage has been irrevocably dissolved. No, this is all about a friend who needs the information. The trouble is, I may be wasting my time, as I am not even sure he is really a Roman Catholic! Still, Enquire Within has to enquire. The nature of the beast! Anyway, thanks for your help. Next time I come to the library, I’ll ask for you. Your name is?”

  “Annie,” she said, laughing. “And enquiring is my business, too.”

  Eleven

  WHEN IVY AND Roy arrived back at Springfields, just in time for lunch, Mrs. Spurling intercepted them on their way to the dining room.

  “No good looking at your watch, Mrs. Spurling,” said Ivy. “We are exactly on time. At least, we shall be if we are not interrupted.”

  “Dear Miss Beasley,” said Mrs. Spurling with exaggerated politeness, “always so precise! No, I have no wish to curb your activities. I was about to give you a message, Mr. Goodman. Your nephew—a Mr. Wright?—is calling in to see you at about three o’clock tomorrow afternoon to discuss wedding details. I believe he is to be your best man. I must say he sounds very charming and helpful.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Roy. “Where shall we see him, Ivy? In the little interview room? That would be private. Ears do flap in the lounge if there’s anything interesting going on with visitors. Natural enough, I’m sure. But perhaps this time . . . ?”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Spurling. Nice Mr. Goodman, she thought. What on earth does he see in this sharp old spinster? Before she came, he was so easy and undemanding, but now—!

  “So you’ll make sure it is clean and warm for us, won’t you?” added Ivy “Now, we must go in to lunch, or we shall be incurring black looks. Come along, Roy.”

  Ivy sailed into the dining room and sat down. When Roy had caught up with her, she leaned towards him and said in a stage whisper, “Do say if you’d rather see Steven by yourself, dearest. I’m afraid I automatically assumed it would be both of us, but you will say if you think I’m presuming, won’t you?”

  Roy laughed aloud. “Ivy, you and I are about to be one! I shall be extremely glad if you are with me. I don’t feel I know Steven at all. For instance, I knew nothing about his driving ban. He has blown in here over the years, perhaps twice a year, and talked platitudes about the weather and farming—about which he knows nothing—and then disappeared again for another six months. The role of best man is important, I believe, so we must make sure he does it the way we want it. Can’t have him revealing the sins of my youth in his speech!”

  • • •

  “IT’S SHEPHERD’S PIE today, Miss Beasley, with a lovely crispy potato topping.”

  “Thank you, Katya dear,” said Ivy. “You describe it beautifully, but the fact is that it is usually minced up leftover meat from yesterday’s roast. My mother used always to make it on Mondays, and the meat was always grey and gristly.”

  “But Anya has the magic touch,” Katya said. “The meat has a delicious basil sauce, and potatoes are mashed with butter. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat my hat!”

  “Where on earth did you get that expression? Though I must say my mother’s shepherd’s pie tasted like an old felt trilby.” Ivy had cheered up now, and tackled her lunch with a will. Roy watched her make short work of the pudding which followed, and thought how much he loved and admired her. She had changed his life.

  “Do you fancy a stroll down Hangman’s Lane this afternoon?” he said now, as they left the dining room. “We might catch Gus at home, ready for a short walk with Whippy? He might have something interesting to tell us.”

  “We certainly have something interesting to tell him,” Ivy said. “That woman we saw yesterday coming out of Alf’s cottage was definitely Mrs. Lowe, don’t you think? They were having a real ding-dong. She sounded like a regular fishwife! I feel sorry for that man, you know. I reckon he’s had a lot to put up with. Good idea of yours. We’ll get our coats and go straight away. Then we can have our snooze when we get back.”

  They managed to slip out quietly, telling only Miss Pinkney that they were going and would not be long.

  “The sun�
��s really warm now,” Ivy said, visibly relaxing once out of the gates of what she and Roy privately called their prison.

  “Right, and you are looking lovely as ever, my dearest.” Roy sat up straight as a ramrod in his trundle, and they set off across the Green in the direction of Hangman’s Lane.

  Gus Halfhide lived in the end cottage of the Hangman’s Row terrace, and beyond were Barrington Woods, a favourite place for villagers to walk in summer. They were part of the estate belonging to Theo Roussel, the squire up at the Hall. He was very tough on trespassers, but as in many English villages, commoners’ rights were upheld from generation to generation.

  Nobody now grazed their cattle on the Green, nor did most sportsmen shoot game in the woods without permission. There were still poachers from time to time, but David Budd, the gamekeeper, kept trespassing under reasonable control. He lived at the opposite end of the terrace with his wife and two small boys.

  As Ivy and Roy approached, Rose Budd lifted her head from brushing slush away from her gate, and welcomed them with a cheery smile.

  “How are you both? It is lovely now, and the forecast is good.”

  “We are venturing out from incarceration,” said Roy with a smile. “We dread being snowbound, don’t we, Ivy?”

  “Afraid the boys’ snowman is melting away rapidly,” Rose said. “He was quite something for a while. Are you visiting Mr. Halfhide? I believe he’s at home. We know everyone’s movements here in the Lane, I’m ashamed to say!”

  Gus was indeed at home, hiding from his over-friendly neighbour, Miriam Blake. He peeped out of his window when he heard the doorbell, and was relieved to see Ivy and Roy.

  “Nice to see you two! Come on in. You must need a rest after a long walk.”

  “No thanks,” said Ivy. “We mean to go on into the woods for a bit. Just the path that’ll take the trundle. We thought you might like to join us. You and Whippy maybe?”

  Gus sighed. He had been planning an afternoon in front of a football match on the telly.