by Ann Purser
Lois smiled. Her mother never gave up trying to enlist Lois into the WI. Lois knew they were a nice bunch, and had interesting speakers, but held out against it. She could never tell Gran the reason, but she felt quite strongly that she did not want to be a mother-and-daughter pair, always out together, seen as one. She was not proud of this.
“Not tonight,” she said. “I’m looking forward to a bit of peace in front of the telly. Been quite a day so far.” And it hadn’t ended yet, she realized. Blanche had something to tell her, and it could be important.
“Better be going,” she said. “Can’t be late. Fussy client.”
“Where?” asked Gran suspiciously.
“Other side of Waltonby,” Lois replied. “Sooner I go, sooner I’ll be back for a walk. Bye, Mum.”
* * *
IN THE OLD INN IN TRESHAM MARKET PLACE, THE KNOT of farmers was breaking up. They’d had a fair bit to drink, and were placing bets on who’d get breathalysed on the way home. “I’m meeting Margaret shortly,” said Joe Horsley. “She’s been spending m’money all morning, so she’ll drive us back home.” He was the last to leave, and lingered, saying he’d arranged for Margaret to come and find him. It was quiet after the others had gone. There were not many left in the bar, and Joe turned to talk to the landlord.
At that moment, the door swung open, and a tall, commanding figure strode in.
“Morning, landlord,” Horace Battersby said firmly. “Whisky, please, same as usual. Morning, Joe. Shall we sit over there in the corner, where we’ll not be disturbed?”
* * *
WHEN LOIS RANG THE BELL AT THE BATTERSBYS’ HOUSE, it was opened immediately. “I was looking out for you,” Blanche said with a smile. “He’s in Tresham this afternoon, so you can come in without fear of being turned out again!”
She’s as perky as a dog with two tails, thought Lois. Obviously not something dire she has to tell me. She followed Blanche into the drawing room and sat down as instructed. She refused refreshment, saying she had another call to make. This was a lie, but Lois had an uncomfortable feeling that the Colonel might appear, steam coming from his ears, before she could get away.
“Fine,” said Blanche, “then I’ll come straight to the point. We have decided to sell the horses. Now that our saddles and bridles and stuff have all gone, Horace is reluctant to buy more. We were insured, of course, but it has made us realize we’re getting a bit too old to handle those big creatures, and perhaps now is the time to give up.”
Lois looked puzzled. “Um, but how does this affect me?” she said. Surely Blanche hadn’t set up this meeting just to tell her that?
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Blanche said, settling herself comfortably in her chair. “We’ve both got quite fond of Floss, and once or twice she has said how much she loves horses. Used to ride quite a lot, apparently.”
Lois nodded. She knew Floss had admired the old mare up at the Hall, and had softened Mrs. Tollervey-Jones’s gorgon heart as a result.
“You probably won’t believe it, but it was Horace’s idea. He wants to give the young mare we bought last year to Floss. Her name is Maisie, and she has a really gentle nature. We would offer to keep her here, as we shall have empty stables, and there’s the paddock doing nothing, too. A plus for us is that we would still have a lovely horse to look at.”
“I still don’t understand why you’re telling me,” Lois said. “It’s really between the Colonel and Floss. I must say I think it’s a very generous offer.”
“Ah, well, you see we thought you might object to a gift to one of your employees from one of your clients. Bad business practice. All that. So I promised to sound you out first. Of course, if you object, then we shall do no more about it.”
“So you haven’t mentioned it to Floss? Or her parents? I presume they would have to buy new tack, and pay for upkeep?”
Blanche nodded. “Yes, there would be that,” she said.
Lois thought for a moment, and then said, “I’d like to think about it for a couple of days, if that’s all right. Meanwhile, we’d better not mention it to Floss.” She got up to leave, and Blanche put her hand on Lois’s arm.
“Horace is not one for generous gestures, Mrs. Meade. It would be so nice if we could encourage him this once.”
As she drove home, Lois felt so weary that she had to make a conscious effort to concentrate. One overriding thought was still with her when she entered her house. What was the Colonel up to? She did not believe for one moment Blanche’s generous gesture theory. He would have a good reason, and it would not be affection for his cleaner, however blonde and attractive. Good mares cost money, lots of money. Well, she had a couple of days to find out.
EIGHTEEN
GRAN DIDN’T MENTION THE WALK. SHE TOOK ONE LOOK at Lois’s weary face, and went off to light the fire in the sitting room. When she came back, she said, “I’ve put the telly on and it’s The Clangers. Why don’t you sit down and watch for a bit. You know how you loved them.”
Lois looked at her sharply and frowned. “Kids’ television? I haven’t sunk that low, Mum. Anyway, I’ve got a few notes to make.” She hesitated at the kitchen door. “Still, I suppose I could do those later . . . Are you sure it’s The Clangers now?”
The twilit other-world of the tiny knitted creatures, with piping sounds their only form of communication, the soup dragon and the trumpeting hoots, were oddly soothing. Maybe Darren would be more at home on the Clangers’ planet. The pleasant voice of the story-teller lulled her into a calm that soon turned to a doze.
Gran later came in with the tea tray, with a pot-bellied teapot under a quilted tea-cosy, and set it down. Lois opened her eyes. “Oh, has it finished?” she said, and sat up straight. “Mum,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. Do you know anything about the Battersbys? Where they came from, who their friends are, anything at all?”
“Why do you ask me that out of the blue? Battersbys? Them over at Waltonby, where Floss cleans?”
“Are there more somewhere else?” Lois asked.
“How should I know? I’m a Tresham girl, don’t forget. I only know about the Waltonby family from what you’ve told me. He’s an army man, isn’t he?”
“He certainly was,” Lois replied. “Retired now. I’m not sure what he does with his time. Keeps horses, and loses his temper quite a bit. Was mad about having his tack stolen. Floss says he treats his wife like a servant. That’s about it.”
“Horses, yes. I remember your father used to talk about him at the point-to-point racing. I’ve heard his wife is very nice, but under his thumb. Military men are like that, Lois. Good thing Derek was never in the services. Mind you, you’d never’ve been under his thumb!”
Lois ignored that. “To get back to the Battersbys,” she said, “I wonder if they’ve always lived in Waltonby?”
“I’ve told you all I know,” Gran said, “but if you’re that keen, why don’t you come to WI with me, and you could ask around. You can bet Ivy Beasley knows all about them. She’s a bottomless pit as far as local knowledge goes.”
Lois said she was really too tired, but was sure her mother could bring up the subject with Ivy. “I think she likes you,” she said. “Met her match, for once.”
Gran denied this hotly. “She beats me hands down,” she said. “Not often I’m lost for words, but Ivy can do it every time. Still, if she’s there, I’ll have a go.”
* * *
IT WAS A CHILLY EVENING, AND THE WI SECRETARY HAD put fifty pence in the meter to have an hour or so’s heating in the hall. The system was not very efficient, as Ivy Beasley had been quick to point out. “Either you roast under one of them electric things, or you freeze to death from the draughts coming under the door,” she had said to the long-suffering President. A project to raise funds for a new community hall had been set up years ago, but as fast as small sums of money were raised from local events, the cost of the project went up. The present hall had been the original old school in the village, and some said it was just
right for the number of people likely to use it. But the main users were the daily playgroup, who without so much as a by-your-leave had taken up all the storage space in the shed behind the hall. The whist group couldn’t reach their card tables, and the carpet bowlers had to step over mounds of toys to reach their carpet runs. It was a continuing battle, without much chance of a solution.
This evening, the plates of cakes were set out in the kitchen, with cups and saucers and a simmering urn, all ready to take into the hall when the speaker had finished. In the semi-circle of chairs, Gran settled herself next to Floss’s mother, Mrs. Pickering, and glanced round for Miss Ivy Beasley. So far there was no sign of her, but a kerfuffle in the porch signalled her approach.
“No need to push me along, Doris!” The harsh voice was unmistakeable. Ivy made her entrance as usual, glaring at anyone already sitting under one of the heaters. Gran jumped up nervously. “Here, Miss Beasley, have this seat, it’s a chilly night, and it’s really warm here . . .” Talking too much, she said to herself. The old bat will do exactly as she likes, even if it means asking some poor soul to move.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Weedon,” Doris Ashbourne said, guiding Ivy towards the seat. Ivy grunted, and sat down. Gran was now next to her, and, recalling her promise to Lois, felt this was all to the good.
“So how are you, Miss Beasley?” Gran said.
“As well as can be expected,” Ivy said. “I begin to feel my age, though. Can’t do what I used to do.”
“That probably goes for all of us,” Gran answered, remembering too late that Ivy always considered herself unique in all fields. “Still,” she added hastily, “I know my daughter thinks you’re wonderful for your age.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment?” Ivy laughed suddenly. “You don’t do so badly yourself, Mrs. Weedon,” she added, visibly softening. “I’m looking forward to visiting you for a cup of tea. Soon,” she said firmly. Gran’s heart sank. It was a date she hoped Ivy had forgotten, but she might have known there was no chance of that. Ivy Beasley had an uncomfortably encyclopedic memory. Gran was not the only one waiting in trepidation for Ivy to correct the speaker on a number of points.
Now, how to bring up the subject of the Battersbys? At least Ivy’s memory could be useful there. But not time now. The President had finished the business of the meeting and was getting to her feet.
“Now, members,” she said, smiling benevolently around, “it is my great pleasure to introduce our speaker for this evening. I know we are in for a real treat. Mr. Blenkinsop has been involved in the Studio Band since it began, and is going to tell us all about it. Over to you, Mr. Blenkinsop,” she concluded, and sat down.
A bespectacled, smartly dressed man in his seventies walked round to the front of the President’s table and beamed at the assembled women. He knew some of them, had known them for years. He’d been at school with one or two. He felt completely at ease. “Just listen to this, ladies, before we begin,” he said as he twiddled a couple of switches and a cheerful burst of brass instruments playing the Dambusters theme filled the hall.
Ivy immediately put her hands over her ears. “Does he think we’re all deaf?” she said in a loud voice. Mr. Blenkinsop grinned. He’d been at school with Ivy, too. “Goes down well on the parade ground, Miss Beasley,” he said, and turned down the volume. After a few minutes, he began to speak, and for an hour his audience listened, spellbound.
“Just one of those naturals,” Doris said to Gran, when they were seated around a rickety card table, covered with a pink plastic cloth. Nothing rickety about the cakes, though. They were light and creamy, very bad for the figure, but consumed with gusto.
“A born story-teller,” agreed Gran. “I loved hearing about how it all began, with the two Miss Battersbys setting it all up to keep the local boys off the streets.”
“Nothing changes,” said Ivy. “Some folk daren’t walk in the streets at night now.”
Gran couldn’t believe her luck when Mr. Blenkinsop had named the benefactors of the band. She turned to Ivy, and said lightly, “I expect you’re too young to remember the Battersby ladies?”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Ivy replied. “Of course I remember them. Thought a lot of themselves, they did. Lived together in a big house by the Town Park in Tresham. Pillars of the church. Always doing good, buying their places in Heaven. Hope they didn’t get a nasty surprise when they got to the pearly gates,” she added comfortably.
“What do you mean, Ivy?” Doris asked.
“You know as well as I do. A couple of dark horses, they were. One or two of the so-called bad boys on the streets were rumoured to be adopted, mothers unknown. At least, known only to a few. Rumour had it that them prim women were no better than they should be. Plenty of money, of course, to cover it up. Long holidays abroad, coming back a lot thinner than when they went. Still, a lot of water under the bridge since then.”
“New Brooms cleans for the Battersbys in Waltonby,” Gran said nonchalantly. “Any relation, are they?”
“Course they are,” Ivy said, helping herself to another wedge of chocolate sponge. “The Colonel’s one of them. Big family, they were. Too many, maybe. Gentleman farmers the other side of Tresham. Somewhere along the line the money ran out. People say the Colonel’s as mean as muck, but I reckon he’s not got that much to throw around. Married money, luckily for him, but some of that’s gone too, from what I hear. Now, Doris, get me another cup of tea, will you. And ask for it hot this time.”
Subject closed, thought Gran, and took up a stack of dirty plates to offer help in the kitchen.
NINETEEN
MONDAY MORNING, AND LOIS HAD ASKED DOT NIMMO to come in half an hour before the team meeting. As promised, Handy’s BMW had been serviced and cleaned, and as Lois looked out of the window to where the car had drawn up by the kerb, she reflected that it was not exactly what clients would expect to see when their cleaner arrived for work.
“Morning, Mrs. Meade,” Dot said briskly. She was neatly dressed and carried a bag the size of a suitcase. “Just in case you wanted me to start straight away after the meeting,” she said.
“What’s in there?” Lois asked, with a sudden mental picture of Dot scooping valuable antiques from the Hall into the bag.
“Cleaning things, o’ course,” Dot said. Lois replied that these were supplied by New Brooms, but that it was very thoughtful of Dot to bring them.
“Now, let’s get a few things sorted out before the others arrive,” Lois said, and in spite of frequent interruptions from Dot, who said she was sure she knew all there was to know about scrubbing floors, by the time there was a knock at the door Dot had been told all the rules and practices of the cleaning team. “And we do work as a team, Dot,” Lois said, “helping each other out when necessary.”
“Well, one thing,” said Dot, “I’m always available. Got nothing else to do now. Nothing else at all.”
Except to have a blitz on your own house, thought Lois, and went to let in Bridie and Floss, the first to arrive. Introductions were made, and when all were sitting comfortably, Lois began with the schedules for the coming week.
“And where shall I be going?” Dot asked when jobs had been allocated.
“With Bridie,” Lois said. “You can go with Bridie for a start. She’ll show you the ropes at Bridge House. It’s in at the deep end, but I’m sure you’ll be up to that. Get together after the meeting, and Bridie can explain.”
Lois had a moment’s panic. Was she wise in sending Dot, an unknown quantity, to her richest and most particular client? The Bucklands were a young couple with small children, a nanny and a housekeeper, and lived a life that seemed based elsewhere. They were never seen in the village, but loud voices calling “Shot! Good shot, Camilla!” floated from the tennis court over the barrier of their laurel hedge in summer. In the autumn, their children stood behind a stretch of stone wall and threw conkers from the towering chestnut tree on to the villagers passing below. The Bucklands were
not disliked in the village, but once people saw how they wished to live, they were ignored.
“Blimey,” said Dot. “You’re right there. Them Bucklands are rich as Croesus. They say she inherited from her dad, who was, so they say, a rag-and-bone man who made his pile in Birmingham.”
“And that reminds me,” Lois said sternly. “I don’t want no gossip. None at all. The good name of my business is at stake, and if I hear a whisper of gossip coming from any member of the team, they’ll be for the high jump.”
All the others looked affronted. “I don’t think you need tell the rest of us that,” Bill Stockbridge said. “And I’m sure Dot will be very careful,” he added, but he looked doubtful. Lois had expected some animosity towards Dot. The Nimmos had a local reputation, and all of the team had read the newspapers. It was with some relief that Lois closed the meeting and sent them on their way.
Bill hesitated at the door, the last to leave. “Could I have a word?” he said, and Lois sighed. Bill was her most levelheaded, responsible cleaner, and she had relied on him for a long time now, discussing problems and sometimes accepting help with gathering information. When Derek accused her of using the team to collect gossip, she denied it hotly. “Not gossip,” she had said. “It’s valuable information.”
“Can’t see the difference,” he had shrugged, and changed the subject.
“I expect you know what I’m going to say.” Bill looked uncomfortable, and fiddled with the door handle.
“Dot Nimmo?” Lois suggested. “You don’t approve. Well then, tell me why.”
“Just one thing,” Bill said. “I know for a fact that the Nimmos are probably some of the wealthiest crooks in Tresham. So why should Handy’s widow need to start cleaning? It can’t be the money, so what is it? You must have asked yourself, Mrs. M. In case you hadn’t, I thought I’d mention it.”