by DH Smith
‘You are so lucky to be working in the playground,’ said Rose, curling her claws in mock attack. ‘How do you swing that on the old pig?’
‘My charm, darling,’ smirked Amy, swaggering with a hand on her hip.
‘While I’m stuck with this leaf vac. I’m sure he does it on purpose. He wants me to go. And I might just. What’s the point anyway? I’m going to be dead by the time I’m 35 – do you know that?’
‘I don’t know it. And neither do you.’
‘I’m certain of it. As certain of that as of anything. I’ve nothing to live for. So why bother to get old? My sister loves her greenhouses. It’s sickening. Gets up early to paint and plant her vegetables. Me? I don’t care about a thing. That’s why I’ll be dead. My life is a pointless waste of breath and food.’
‘You should get married, have a family…’
‘Oh!’ she grimaced, ‘you’re just like my mother. I can’t stand kids.’
‘You’re just saying that, Rose. All women want kids really.’
‘I hate them. I see a woman with a pushchair and I think, tip it in the canal. A woman with a pregnant bump and I want to scream at her: the last thing the world needs is another kid! Stick a coat hanger up yourself!’
‘I am appalled at you, Rose,’ exclaimed Amy leaning away from the tirade. ‘That’s so wicked. Where would families be if everyone thought like you? The other week, I was at the christening for my niece’s first child. It was lovely. The baby girl in a white silk dress, water tipped over her head and given a name, Jamie, with her parents, aunties and uncles and all the grannies and granddads dressed to the nines…’
‘Stop! All that sickly, drippy grinning stuff with the baby shitting its nappy – as if it’s never been done before. Yuk! Another mouth to feed, another me, me, me, who’ll want a house, a car and a job on this crowded tip of a planet…’ Rose glared round the playground at the children and mothers. ‘We should stop every one of them breeding for twenty years. A no child policy. And after that, it’s one in ten allowed to have one baby only, by ballot… until we’ve got the numbers down to a billion. Then the rest of us could breathe without bumping into people, and choking on their effluent.’
‘You’re so selfish, Rose. I can’t believe your attitude. You would deny anyone the joy of a family.’
‘And you’d have the world packed so tight we’ll be standing shoulder to shoulder, so that all we’ll be able to do is screw, until we’ve squished ourselves into a great ball of lard.’
Amy threw her hands up. ‘Then kill yourself, Rose. Do us all a great favour, don’t wait till you’re 35, and don’t give me no more of this baby killing rubbish.’
Rose might have given her quite a bit more of her baby bashing tirade as she was enjoying taunting her, but a thin woman pushing a pushchair had come over. And Rose had to stop. The woman stopped by Amy.
‘Is it you who does the Women Fly Women thing?’ she said shyly.
‘I do,’ said Amy.
‘I want in,’ said the woman.
‘Have you got the flight price?’
‘I have,’ said the woman and began to take some money out of her handbag.
‘Let’s go to the office,’ said Amy and led the woman away from Rose to the playground office.
Rose watched. She had known for some time that Amy was up to something in the playground, some little money making scheme, but didn’t know what. Amy was evasive when asked directly. But here she was in action and the woman eager to buy in. Rose knew she should be vaccing the playground, but she just had to know what was going on.
Except she couldn’t see much. Amy was in the office, the top half of the door was swung open obscuring her view so she could only see the bottom half of the woman with her pushchair and its occupant. Rose turned on her vac and began sweeping in their direction, more intent on what was going on in the hut than picking up leaves. She saw or thought she saw the rapid passing of notes, and the woman hurriedly putting a box into a shopping bag hanging on the handle of the pushchair.
When the woman had gone, Rose hoovered up to Amy and turned off the machine.
‘What’s Women Fly Women?’ she said.
‘Why? Do you want in?’ Amy was sharp, her face concentrated, none of the usual easy giggles about her.
‘How much do I need?’
‘Two hundred.’
‘I’ve got it.’ Rose hadn’t, but knew she wouldn’t get any information if she didn’t pretend. ‘What do I get for it?’
Amy took her to the office and opened the top half of the door. There were a pile of white boxes, each about 20 centimetres square, taking up much of the floor space. Amy picked one up.
‘This.’
‘What is it?’ said Rose.
Amy opened the carton. Inside were lots of ornate little bottles of an amber liquid. Amy pulled one out and gave it to Rose.
‘Smell it.’
Rose twisted off the gold top and gingerly smelt the liquid. ‘Perfume.’ She sniffed again. ‘Quite nice.’ She put the cap back on. ‘Is that all I get for 200 quid?’
Amy took the bottle from her and put it on the office desk.
‘There’s 20 bottles in this carton. You sell each one for a tenner…’
‘That just gets me my money back,’ Rose shrugged. ‘All sweat and no profit.’
Amy tapped her nose conspiratorially. ‘But you don’t lose any. And that makes you a passenger.’
‘But I’ve badgered all my friends, just to get my original two hundred.’
‘The next step,’ said Amy, ‘is to sign three of them up. You get a tenner for each one you bring in.’
Rose shrugged. ‘30 quid for all that hassle. Not even minimum wage.’
Amy ignored her and went on. ‘Then in three months you get a £1000 pay out.’
Rose was startled. ‘How does that work?’
‘It’s all the profit up the line. It’s why that woman was so eager to sign up. Her mate just got £1000.’ Amy smirked at Rose. ‘It’s winners all round. Women Fly Women.’
‘How much are you making on it?’
‘That’d be telling. I’m a pilot, so of course I make more.’
‘You a pilot? Where’s your plane?’
Amy sighed. ‘It’s just what I’m called. When you buy the box of scent you become a passenger. Then when you bring in three others, you become a crew member. And I’m the next rung up, a pilot.’
‘Who’s over you?’
‘The captain.’
‘Then who?’
‘The marshal and that’s the top.’
Rose was scratching her head, trying to work it all out. ‘Who’s your captain?’
‘You’re not even in yet and asking me all these questions.’
‘Two hundred quid you want – and I can’t ask how it works?’
‘Do you want to make a thousand or not?’
‘Of course I do.’
Amy laughed. ‘And you told me there’s nothing you want.’ She rubbed her fingers together. ‘Money, that attracts you. You want to be rich.’
‘Well, it’s better to be rich than poor. But you don’t understand, Amy. There’s nothing I want to do with my life. Being rich would give me nice clothes and a decent place to live – but I know I’d be bored, because it’s all pointless.’
‘Oh, you give me the pip! A woman at your age, with your looks, shouldn’t have any trouble. Find yourself a man.’
‘And then get stuck cooking and cleaning for him and wiping babies’ bottoms.’
Amy pointed across the playground. ‘Ian’s heading this way. I think you’d better look active. And if you want to be in Women Fly Women then get me the flight price – and you’re off.’
The two women split as Ian came into the playground. Rapidly Rose had the vac sucking, as Amy strolled about the playground smiling at the users.
Part Two:
The Murder
Chapter 12
Bill stopped for a cigarette, a thin rollup, pre-prep
ared in his tobacco tin. At the tea break he’d made himself three to last till lunch. If he couldn’t give up, he liked to claim he had enough willpower to limit himself to three prison slims. And so what if they killed you. Living did that anyway.
Zar was forking out the border of alyssums on the flower bed they were both working on, and loading them into a wheelbarrow. Bill had done almost half the snapdragons that filled the centre. The bed looked at its worst, half cleared and trampled, half full of keeling plants, like despairing orphans in a witch’s orphanage.
‘When d’you start your day release?’ asked Bill between puffs.
‘Next Monday,’ said Zar.
‘So who’s going to be doing your work here?’
‘You,’ said Zar with a laugh. ‘You won’t mind that, will you?’
‘I never went on day release,’ said Bill rasping his lips. ‘I learnt on the job. There’s nothing in those books.’
‘There’s got to be something in them,’ insisted Zar, ‘all those words and pictures, on all those pages. Got to be something, Bill.’
‘Nothing that’s useful.’ He stomped the ground. ‘Out here, on the ground is where you learn. Tell me something useful you got from a book.’
‘What’s an F1 hybrid?’ asked Zar.
‘Well, it’s a type of hybrid…’
‘That’s in the name. Anyone could work that out. But what type of hybrid is it,’ pressed Zar.
‘And how’s that useful to me? Why should I waste my time learning it?’
‘You don’t have to. I’ll waste my time learning it for you, Bill. To save you the bother.’
Bill flicked away his dog end. ‘You’ll end up so whooshy clever, you won’t be able to do the spring bedding, so up in the air clever you won’t be here to prune a rose, or trench dig a flower bed. And those without their heads in a book will have to do it for you, and on half your office-wallah money.’
Zar forked the last of the alyssums into the barrow.
‘Did you know there were death stalks in the shrubbery, Bill?’
‘What’s a death stalk when it’s at home?’
‘Poisonous mushrooms. Why don’t you read it up? There must be someone you want to kill.’ And without waiting for a reply, he took the handles of the wheelbarrow, and set off across the grass to the yard.
There was no point arguing with Bill. You could never win. The best thing to do was take the mickey out of him. Undercut him. Though he was a good gardener, but you wouldn’t want to be his apprentice.
Zar came into the yard, past the two piles of bricks, the new and the reclaimed bricks the builder was gradually taking into the yard. At the dump end was Rose with her vac. She was sluggishly emptying the bag of leaves.
‘Liz says it’s your birthday,’ he said.
‘I wish she wouldn’t tell people,’ she said crossly. ‘It’s nothing to be proud of. Being 30. Just that bit nearer death.’
‘You’re in the prime of life, Rose.’
She indicated the leaf dump. ‘Is this really the prime, Zar?’
‘Who knows what the future’s going to bring?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then forget the future and enjoy the present.’
‘Oh God, Zar, you sound like one of those new age hippies.’
‘I was only thinking of buying some cakes to celebrate your birthday and my going on day release.’
Rose smiled at him sadly. ‘Oh, it’s a pity you’re so young, Zar.’
‘What, not old and worn out like you?’
She punched him on the shoulder. ‘I was going to say because you’re the nicest person in this park, but I’ve changed my mind. Bill is.’
They both laughed.
‘Do you want to come out and get some cakes with me?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She sucked her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Chocolate éclairs or Danish slices? You win. I’m a convert to your religion. Take me to the temple of cake, oh master.’
‘One more load, then we’ll head off.’
Chapter 13
Ian left his office. He straightened his tie. The leaf vac had been parked untidily by the dump, taking up too much room. He moved it to a better position, out of the way. So easy, why don’t people do it? He’d tell Rose off. Or maybe not. She was Liz’s sister, might be his sister-in-law. He’d need to think that one out. How relationships change. Though Rose could be so sloppy.
He was nervous. This lunch. How might it go? Would you invite someone to lunch to give them the push? Didn’t seem likely. But could be a way of getting the best out of him, short of marriage. He must take it step by step, see exactly what she was offering, and never forget that he held the ace. And she must know that he would play it.
The whole point of a deterrent.
In the yard, he noted the builder had piled his reclaimed brick by the new brick pile. Neat enough. He didn’t want another argy bargy with him. Provided he did his work, though he had seen Liz talking to him earlier. About what? That was the thing with women, how much could you trust them?
That was part of what had broken them up. She went out a lot, to various classes, her painting courses. She talked to people for too long – and he got jealous. He couldn’t help it. He saw the way they looked at her. And she was his. He knew what men were like.
He came out of the yard. There was the builder sitting on the wall eating his lunch like he owned the place. To hell with him and his old bricks. He’d be gone soon enough. Cocky so and so, legs spread like he was ready for it. If Ian had a pitch fork, he’d teach him to be ready.
Cool it. This was no way to be. Jealous of a brickie. He was ten times better. This was his park. He had the ace.
Ian turned away from the bricklayer and walked down the drive. Bowling green fine, though the verandah of the pavilion could do with a sweep. Get Zar on it. Tennis courts clear of leaves, but the net was sagging. Get Amy to tighten it. A couple of male pensioners were playing on one of the courts, a lot of talking, not much hitting. The other court was empty.
Ian crossed onto the lawn and looked in the marquee. Liz’s cascade was half out, the frame of it, a sort of staircase thing that would have plants trailing down the edges and water flowing down the middle. She’d had an interrupted morning with that dosser, so excusable how much she’d done, what with her greenhouse work. Perhaps she needed some assistance.
Wednesday had to be pukka. No mistakes, the park looking good, everyone on best behaviour. He would be judged by it and it had to be right.
Ian crossed to the playground but didn’t go in. Clear of leaves, all but the paddling pool. That needed a clearing and hose down. Really, it could do with a cover, or it just collected rubbish. Money, it was all about money. Budgeting drove him crackers.
He turned into the Mayor’s Avenue. The cottages were at the end. There were two rows of oak trees, set in from the drive, six on one side, five on the other; each planted by a mayor of the borough, but this Wednesday the retiring Member of Parliament would add his as well. Two holes had to be made ready, one on either side, totally circular and neat, a post in the centre of each. Tomorrow he’d set Bill and Zar on it.
Ian looked in the rose garden. It hadn’t been vacced. Really, vaccing should be no more than a morning’s work. How she dragged it out! He’d seen her jawing to Zar and Amy… If he wasn’t watching, she’d jaw all day and do nothing else.
But she was his putative sister in law. If things went as he hoped. His stomach was all a skitter. This could go either way. Lunch could mean she accepted the inevitable, saw it was all for the best. She would grow to love him as he became part of her life. As they went places together, foreign holidays and so forth.
She was a vegetarian. Another difficulty last time, his meat eating. A meal wasn’t a meal without a chop, a piece of steak, bacon, a couple of burgers even. He’d have to compromise there, though how much? That was the difficulty. She would have to compromise too. He couldn’t expect her to become a meat-eater; he’d tried that last t
ime and it just ended in too many rows. She was a vegetarian, he would accept that. One hundred per cent. But he was a meat-eater. There was room for both in the world.
Dead heading. After the rose garden had been vacced, Rose could do that.
He’d stopped, halfway up the drive. He didn’t know what he was walking into. Was she really in any position to say no to him? And he wouldn’t stand for any prevaricating. If it was on, it was on. And no messing him about.
He took a deep breath and strode out smartly. She might be looking out of the window, he must appear confident and in charge. He held the big trump. And she knew it.
He opened the gate of her cottage and walked down the short path. She was in the kitchen and waved to him through the window. So no need to ring. He stood at the door, breathing regularly, his shoes smartly together as if he were courting.
She opened the door and gave him a nervous smile.
‘Come in, Ian.’
He wiped his feet on the mat and she led him into the kitchen where food was spread on the table.
‘You have been busy,’ he said.
‘I left a little early,’ she said, ‘as this was rather important.’
She held out a chair for him and he sat down. She took her place opposite. It was a small table, just large enough for two. And she had prepared a plate of food for them both with pie and sauce, lettuce, spring onions, tomatoes and a rice salad.
‘This looks awfully nice. How did you prepare it so quickly?’
‘The salad I had anyway, and the pie I just added to and microwaved. And sauce is only a few minute job. A mushroom, walnut and tahini quick fry.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He tentatively tried the pie. ‘It’s very tasty.’