Head Count

by Judith Cutler

  ‘You’ve still got me on speed-dial if – well, just in case?’ Lloyd asked. ‘Excellent. Anyone else whose toes you’ve trodden on?’

  ‘Only the Lady of the Manor’s. But that bloody waiter’s hovering again – I hate to say this but maybe we should order?’

  ‘And don’t even look at burgers, Car, or you’ll be the size of a house before you know it.’

  ‘That’s enough, Geraint. While we’re eating, Jane, you can fill me in on the Lady Preston affair. Steak for me, please, rare.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The route back to the Mondiale from Wrayford School took me close enough to my putative new home to justify a diversion just to see that it was still there. Just a couple of days after I last looked at it: sad or what, as Geraint might have said. It was, and, as I feared, the garage was just as flat and the garden was even more overgrown.

  ‘You don’t know who owns this, do you?’ A woman’s head appeared over next door’s hedge, which was trimmed to within a millimetre. Actually, so was the woman’s hair, in a very expensive cut, suited to the Merc that lurked in the block-paved drive. And even for an over-the-hedge chat she was well made up and neatly manicured. I’d put her in her late sixties, maybe even early seventies.

  Clearly when I moved I would have standards to maintain. Meanwhile, I needed to respond to what seemed a question heaving with criticism. ‘I do, as a matter of fact.’

  She might have misheard me. ‘Well, you can tell whoever it is that the place is a disgrace. There’s no excuse for this. Look at it. And the smell! I shall be complaining to the council if something isn’t done soon.’

  She was right: the animal smell still lingered – might, if anything, be worse.

  ‘There are two problems: the builders who were supposed to be bringing it up to scratch went bankrupt, and the person contracted to do the garden has simply been too busy, but has promised to attend to it within the next two weeks. That should get rid of the garage and the foxes or whatever. I’m afraid, though, that things are going to get worse for you: building work and landscape gardening involve skips and mess, and probably a lot of noise, too.’

  ‘Humph. Who is it? Some weekender?’

  ‘No, it’s me, actually.’

  ‘You look quiet enough, that’s one thing. I’ll tell you, you’ll want to lock your stuff away. There’s been some thefts in the village.’

  ‘Really?’ My surprise was genuine. ‘I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Power tools. It’ll be the migrants, you mark my words.’

  Stealing ride-on mowers and now power tools! Clearly these poor wanderers were versatile. To my shame I said nothing, however, because I was going to have to rub along with her for as long as we were neighbours, and so far she’d had very little reason to like me. ‘I’ll warn the builders. I’m Jane Cowan, by the way.’

  ‘Mrs Penkridge.’ We shook hands with no little difficulty. ‘Ah, you’re the headmistress. You had some trouble at the school, didn’t you? You’re sure it’s safe to send children there now? Quite sure? I told my daughter I wouldn’t want anything to happen to my little granddaughter. Charlotte. Charlotte Bingham.’

  Charlotte Bingham? Not one of mine. Or not yet, at least. ‘Pretty little girl,’ I improvised. ‘Bright? Didn’t I see her with her mother at the open morning for reception children?’

  Crisis averted. Perhaps I had, perhaps I hadn’t, but Mrs Penkridge wasn’t going to argue with anyone calling her precious grandchild pretty and bright.

  We embarked on the usual manoeuvres to end an encounter. As I withdrew to my car, she had the last word. ‘Don’t forget, you want to do something about that smell.’

  Seven-thirty on Friday saw me outside soon after seven: not for anything would I antagonise Paula by being late. But she was there before me. Nor was she alone. Another hard-hatted and yellow-jacketed woman was already checking the front of the building, making notes and taking photographs. She turned out to be the architect, a laconic woman called Ann.

  Before we could do more than shake hands, however, Mrs Penkridge shot out, already beautifully dressed and made-up.

  ‘I told you that you needed to be more security-conscious! I told you! And what have I just seen but some yobs running across your garden. Probably migrants, of course. So I shouted and they ran away. But they’ll steal your bricks and mortar, that sort. I called the police but they said it didn’t sound like an emergency and to dial 101 or whatever it is. And they’ll get someone on routine patrol to offer some advice. I ask you, advice! You need to get some barbed wire in that hedge of yours: that’ll make them think.’

  It had certainly made me think.

  ‘I’m really grateful. Thank you so much. This is my builder; Paula, Mrs Penkridge. We’re just going to discuss what she’s going to do.’

  ‘A woman builder! So why did you get rid of the others?’

  ‘I told you: they went bankrupt.’

  ‘So you did. But I told you I’ve heard men’s voices and thought … Well, they had one of those trucks. Silly me. But a woman builder!’

  Quite. ‘She comes with the very highest—’ I was talking to thin air. Just when I ought to have been asking her about the sort of truck they drove. Was she the sort of woman to protect her house with CCTV? Because there weren’t a lot of cameras in the average hedgerow, as I’d found to my cost at the start of the holiday.

  In the face of considerable provocation, Paula and Ann had managed to preserve a professional demeanour, and actually looked as if they might be doing some work.

  ‘I don’t usually invite the architect along at this stage,’ Paula said, ‘but it might speed things up if we can agree everything on-site. It’s good to see you’ve been paying regular visits: that’ll deter the unwanted guests your neighbour was talking about.’ She pointed: the gravel approach to the late but unlamented garage, tucked away at the back, was rutted. Some of the tracks looked pretty recent.

  The summer’s morning went cold. ‘Not my tracks; not my visits. And those youths … My neighbour was saying she had to chase away some youths this morning.’

  ‘I know; that doesn’t sound too good,’ Paula said, who was clearly into understatement. ‘We’ll just make sure there’s no one here now. Actually, we do it carefully – I’d rather scare someone into running away, not fighting …’

  It was weird for me to have someone else giving the orders, but clearly no one questioned Paula. Ever, probably.

  Talking with very little semblance of normality, in my case at least, we ambled round the side of the house, the other women talking technicalities about utilities and building materials.

  ‘Apart from linking a brick-built garage to the house, what plans did you have for the garden?’ Paula asked.

  It felt like a make-or-break interview question. ‘I’ve got a landscape gardener friend: I’ll take his advice.’

  ‘But you must have some ideas? It’d help us no end if we could get rid of that mess of bushes and see the proper lie of the land.’

  I felt like a child needing to justify myself. ‘I’m already on to it, Paula. He promised to be here in the next couple of weeks. I reckon I’ve got foxes or something: the smell …’

  ‘You’re sure it’s foxes? OK. Meanwhile, I’ll get one of our contractors to dispose of that garage, before some clever kids think it’d be fun to set fire to it. If we can start on an absolutely clear site it’ll speed us up no end. For your sake – and your neighbour’s – we’ll employ our regular security team. We want to make sure no materials or tools go walkabout – not that we ever leave tools overnight, of course.’ She spoke as if she was addressing the neighbours, not me; I’d not have expected her to be so informative, either.

  ‘How soon can you bring them in? I don’t like the idea of unauthorised visitors.’ I jerked a thumb at the tracks.

  She made a note. ‘I’ll make sure they start this afternoon, tomorrow morning latest. Very well, let’s go round to the front, then you can let us in.’


  The house smelt rank as well as damp.

  ‘Did the foxes get in somehow? Or,’ I continued, trying not to let my voice wobble, ‘have I had a human guest?’

  ‘More to the point, have you still got one?’ Ann whispered.

  ‘No, don’t shut the door, Ann – leave it wide open. Let’s check out the front room first, shall we?’ she added loudly.

  We trooped in. I responded to Paula’s silent enquiry with a nod. It was just as I’d left it. I made an effort. ‘I thought a wood-burning stove in a simple modern grate: the thirties were an interesting historical period, but not in the form of a brown-tiled grate in my living room.’

  ‘So what would you do with it?’ Paula asked sharply.

  ‘Take your advice.’ I gestured to her and to Ann.

  That seemed to be the right response. ‘Those leaded lights aren’t period – so we can change those.’

  I scratched my head. ‘This all seems a bit micromanagement,’ I protested. ‘I was hoping for grand ideas from Ann and amazing building skills from you.’

  ‘You shall have both,’ Paula declared, with a sudden warm smile that transformed her face. ‘But it seemed sensible to talk about the place while we were waiting for our friend to depart. Didn’t you hear the back door open and shut? No?’ She turned back to the hall. I ran past her, to see if I could see the intruder. Nothing. I turned back.

  ‘It ties in with what my neighbour was saying. Look. Can we just stand outside for a minute?’ Staggering out, I leant against the house and tried to do the breathing my various therapists had insisted on. ‘Sorry. That’s better. It’s all to do with my having a violent and abusive ex, who used to break into whatever house I’d moved to.’ I explained briefly.

  Ann put her arm round me. ‘I’m not surprised you’re shaking. Even a mere casual burglar’s enough to make me shake.’

  ‘Not a burglar, I’d say,’ Paula said firmly. ‘Certainly not a violent ex. More likely to be a gentleman of the road, like our old friend Montague – he’s actually a peer of the realm with a stately home to boot, Jane, but he prefers the open road and someone else’s roof,’ she explained. ‘We see a lot of him – we often share our lunches with him because he’s such an entertaining talker. So long as you’re sitting to windward, not leeward.’

  Ann shook her head. ‘Youths, that woman said. Montague wouldn’t be in anyone’s company. There are a lot of homeless people around these days, of course.’

  ‘Ann puts in a lot of hours for Shelter, the homeless charity,’ Paula chipped in.

  ‘Homeless is possible. Or – given we’re in Kent, and thus close to France – it could be what the media would call illegal immigrants. I’d prefer the term asylum seekers,’ Ann said.

  ‘Or even refugees,’ I added sadly. Something quite visceral made me reluctant to betray them to the authorities. ‘Look, can we talk through the house changes before I decide what to do?’

  Paula gave me a searching look, but nodded. ‘Let’s see if any damage has been done, shall we? Or anything that might be … alarming … left behind.’

  Alarming? Slowly it dawned on me that my guest might not have been benign. But I didn’t want to contemplate that yet. ‘Kitchen and bathroom – absolute priorities, of course. After the roof. And I wondered about the greenest way to heat the place.’ I was talking at random, but both women took notes. ‘Oh, and if it were at all possible I’d like a secure room.’

  ‘You’re still anxious about this ex?’

  ‘Put it another way, still scared beyond reason. Of course, I don’t want to admit it’s a place to hide. I want it to look like a book room or something I can be proud of, not ashamed of.’

  ‘Survival itself is something to be proud of,’ Ann said tartly. ‘But I can assure you that I will never design anything ugly. Paula would never build it. William Morris might not be to everyone’s taste, certainly not Paula’s, but he got it right about needing to have beautiful things in your home. And about having a beautiful home.’

  ‘I’ve got some ideas from the holiday let I’m living in,’ I said. ‘Shall I send you some photos?’

  ‘Good idea. Well,’ Paula continued, ‘there’s nothing incriminating here. Not so much as a sleeping bag or a rucksack. So our friend was travelling light. Let’s throw open all the windows and let some of this lovely summer air in. There! Now, talk me through your dreams so we can make at least some of them come true …’

  The sheer matter-of-factness of Paula’s conversation, augmented by Ann’s occasional flights of fancy – all, she insisted, possible, and not so desperately expensive either – kept me going for the next hour or so. But my mind would insist on sneaking back to what I knew I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  At last Paula shot me one of her appraising glances. ‘You were telling us about your holiday let, Jane. Can we go back there and grab a coffee and see if we can adapt anything? Sometimes it’s better so see things in situ.’

  ‘The place’ll probably be overrun with workmen,’ I said. ‘Actually, it had better be. I’m sick of hotel living, and I want to get back to what passes for home these days.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The three of us paused outside the row of cottages, looking up at the roofs. Mine, now patched with almost-matching tiles, was separated from its neighbour by a newly built wall, so the whole structure was secure – until work started again on the middle house, of course. The other end cottage had a similar wall, so it too could be rented out once again. I had to admire the enterprise James and the owner, Brian Dawes, had shown. Where on earth had he found builders prepared to do the work at such short notice? And why, knowing how desperate I’d been, had he never thought to put in a good word for me to encourage them to do the same for my house? But at least I had Paula on my side now, so I’d try to abandon my grumpy resentment before it got a grip.

  At least I had a roof again. The scaffolding was down. Someone was sweeping up the back garden.

  I offered him coffee, which he declined.

  The women were prowling round inside; I wasn’t sure if they were checking that it was habitable again or looking at the features I said I liked, like the chic bathroom. There was no one in the space-age kitchen. Digging in a cupboard I found elderflower cordial; the big American fridge produced ice. Perhaps that would be better than coffee. The workman agreed it would be. So, eventually, did Ann and Paula. We all adjourned to the newly spruce garden, the workman having sunk his drink in one draught. With a wave, he was driving off.

  The silence between us grew. They were waiting for me to speak, and not necessarily about home improvements.

  ‘I have to act, don’t I?’ I said, putting my glass down on the pretty outdoor table. ‘Kids like those that Mrs Penkridge saw don’t just drive here in a car with big wheels. A car that makes several journeys here. You know, I’m actually worried for their safety if the car driver finds them first.’

  Paula looked at me appraisingly and produced her slow, shrewd smile.

  ‘You’re assuming they’re innocent victims? I hope they are,’ Ann put in. ‘But I have to point out that not all Syrians or whatever are angels. What if they’re ISIS operatives?’

  I spread my hands. ‘I want them to be innocent kids, caught up in a situation beyond their control. If not … I’m going to contact a friend, as decent an officer as you could find. I know it passes the responsibility to someone else, but that’s how it’s going to be.’

  Paula nodded. ‘Good. Meanwhile do I have your permission to secure the property with immediate effect?’

  ‘Of course: it’s just what I was going to ask you to do.’

  I watched a couple of Lloyd’s colleagues offer a cursory inspection of my humble abode. It would have been hard for them to look less interested. Ann had had to leave to keep her next appointment; Paula had stayed with me after making a couple of phone calls. Another member of the team soon joined us, a slight woman somewhere in her thirties whom Paula introduced as their historic building
s expert. Nonetheless, she was the one who would devote herself to managing all the changes I needed.

  We shook hands. ‘Caffy Tyler. Double f, not th,’ she said. ‘The C in PACT. Paula and Caffy’s Team. See? And I know this isn’t a historic building, but I was once in an abusive relationship too and I’m stepping in to save time. The castle I should be working on has been there eight hundred years without falling into complete disrepair and another two or three weeks won’t hurt.’

  Before we could say more, the older constable, a guy whose name I hadn’t caught, came over and addressed himself to Paula. ‘I don’t think we’ll be much longer. You can go ahead and get that guy of yours to secure the site.’

  ‘Guy?’ I asked her quizzically. ‘I thought you only dealt with women.’

  Paula answered with a straight face. It dawned on me rather late that she might not have the most active sense of humour. ‘For the decorating side we’re exclusively female – interior and exterior, that is. I do my best to support my gender – and I’ll bet you support and promote your women staff too. But sometimes a male’s the best option and I’m professional enough to want the best.’

  ‘Actually I appointed a male deputy at Wrayford School,’ I said. ‘Because I thought he was the best.’ My confession over, I groaned, ‘My God, Paula, is it selfish of me to hope this is much ado about nothing? I really need a place to call my own. A nice safe place, too.’

  ‘You call this safe?’ put in Caffy, with her two Fs. ‘You’ve got neighbours who must have seen or heard something but who never thought to alert you or the authorities? Lovely folk, clearly. I’ll build you a nice high wall no one will be able to scale, and fit electronic gates and a key-code front door. I can even build that secure room you mentioned to Paula. But I’ll also keep an eye out for a better place for you, so you can sell this at an enormous profit and find somewhere to put down roots. Sorry, Jane, if that isn’t what you want to hear – but I always tell it as it is.’