A Few Little Lies

by Sue Welfare

  Alicia Markham, chairwoman of the Conservative Association, fought the temptation to lean across the car and straighten Guy Phelps’ tie. It showed a touching vulnerability. She took a deep breath. First really public local event, low-key, intimate, something the average man in the street could relate to, or at least his wife would.

  Guy Phelps, the new Conservative candidate, would appeal to the mainstream motherly Fairbeach voter, particularly at the moment with his winsomely crooked tie. Guy Phelps, the housewives’ choice. Alicia glanced at her watch. The bring and buy was due to open at two – they had plenty of time.

  They had all just come back from a quiet celebratory lunch at the Sexton and Compasses. Guy’s wife had made a pretty little speech of thanks to the ladies of the selection committee, smiling demurely in her nice new Laura Ashley frock, making a joke of having to stock up on home-made cakes at the fund raiser to fill the freezer for Party Ladies’ Teas.

  Everyone had smiled in all the right places. At least Guy Phelps’ wife, though patently vacuous, had none of the combative edge that Caroline Rees had displayed. She had even demurely accepted a suggestion that she might wear a hat at official functions from now on.

  The official party car slowed dramatically as it turned along the riverfront towards The Close, down past Lawrence Rawlings’ Georgian pile. The funereal pace was not through any deference to Fairbeach’s illustrious family but because the road was pitted with ruts and potholes. Guy winced as the car bounced down into the gutter.

  ‘Perhaps I ought to have a word about the state of the roads down here. I’m surprised Lawrence hasn’t mentioned it to the local council,’ Guy said to the driver.

  The man remained silent but caught Alicia’s eye in the rear-view mirror.

  Guy tapped his jacket pockets. Guy’s wife – her name escaped Alicia – Laura? Elspeth? – smiled.

  ‘What have you lost now, darling?’ she said, with an exaggerated air of long suffering.

  Guy grinned, adding to the endearing image of boyishness. ‘My speech, sweetheart. Do you remember? I jotted down a few points on some cards, this morning at breakfast.’

  His wife rolled her eyes heavenwards and produced them from her handbag.

  ‘I said they’d spoil the line of your suit. Now remember, not too long.’

  Alicia turned her attention to the rolling tidal waters of the river, slightly bemused at being privy to scenes of such domestic intimacy.

  She hoped Guy had taken his wife’s advice. A bring and buy sale was hardly an appropriate platform from which to launch a political career. The other passenger in the car, Colin Scarisbrooke, Guy’s newly appointed political agent, leaned forward and straightened Guy’s tie.

  ‘Touching, smiling, caring, confident, eye contact. Keep it short, tip your head.’

  Alicia stared at Scarisbrooke. ‘Is this some new version of “I pack my bag”?’ she demanded, in her most imperious tone.

  Colin smiled. ‘Not at all, Mrs Markham, I’ve been talking Guy through some of the aspects of what makes for good human interaction. Studies show that this is what your electorate will respond to. Use these tatties and they will remember Guy as a good man.’ He paused. ‘It’s called the Diana effect.’

  Alicia stared at him coldly. Guy turned his smile on her. He didn’t need lessons, she thought. He had it all, already. She wished Colin Scarisbrooke had left his tie alone.

  The car crept over Town Bridge to join the flow of afternoon traffic. The Corn Exchange was two minutes away.

  Guy ran his fingers through his long soft fringe, checking his appearance in the discreetly placed vanity mirror, then leant forward and touched Alicia’s arm.

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ he said in an undertone.

  Alicia felt a little flurry of pleasure as he looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘Wonderful,’ snapped Colin Scarisbrooke. ‘Absolutely perfect. That’s it.’

  Alicia swung round and glared at him, raw with indignation.

  Guy Phelps coughed. ‘Now, what time do we have to leave?’

  Colin, caught in the black widow’s gaze, didn’t move, though his eyes widened.

  Guy’s wife opened her handbag again. ‘Oh, you men,’ she laughed gaily. ‘What on earth would they do without us, Alicia?’ She glanced down at a floral-covered notebook, running her neatly manicured finger down over the page.

  ‘Leave by three thirty at the latest, home to pick up our car, must remember to take your new suit, and then straight on to Norwich for the recording at the TV studio. Supper with Jean and Bob …’ She paused, reddening slightly. ‘Old friends, very nice people, they live near Attleborough, he’s in animal feeds – and then home.’

  Alicia’s eyes still hadn’t left Colin Scarisbrooke. ‘It sounds as if you’ve got everything organised, my dear, maybe we ought to have taken you on instead of Mr Scarisbrooke.’

  Everyone, except for Alicia, laughed.

  ‘And what have you got in Guy’s diary for tomorrow?’

  The hapless woman read on. ‘Church first thing, early Communion.’ She plucked a matching pencil from the spine of the little book and added another note. ‘Your new grey suit for that, I think. And then Mr Rawlings has invited us all over for Sunday lunch.’

  Slowly, Alicia Markham turned towards Guy’s wife.

  ‘Lawrence Rawlings?’ she said quietly.

  Guy’s wife nodded. ‘Oh yes, I’m friends with his daughter, Sarah. She thought it would be lovely if we could all get together before the madness of the by-election starts. We met through the children really. Her girls go to school with our two. So we’re all going, children and everything. It should be lovely. After all, we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?’

  Alicia smiled and nodded. What was Lawrence Rawlings up to?

  Beside her, relieved to be given a stay of execution, Colin Scarisbrooke sighed and mopped his forehead with a large paisley handkerchief.

  The VIP parking space outside the Corn Exchange was neatly cordoned off with orange bollards. A sleek dark car eased slowly between the cones, directed by a uniformed man who moved the markers and replaced them as required.

  Standing next to Dora, Sheila sniffed and pointed.

  ‘All right for some people. That’ll be that new Conservative chap. Rest of us have to park round the back behind the Empire, but not him.’

  Dora stared at her. ‘I thought you always voted Conservative? True Blue, and all that?’

  Sheila adjusted the wicker basket on her arm. ‘I do, but voting for them doesn’t necessarily mean I think they ought to have special treatment when it comes to parking.’

  There was a long queue waiting for the bring and buy to open. A brightly coloured waterfall of old women, mothers and children grouped, shuffled and fidgeted down over the steps. The sun shone, and everyone was talking, chirruping, waiting expectantly for the doors to open.

  Conservative dos inevitably had a decent turnout. There was always a nice class of jumble.

  Below them, on the pavement, Alicia Markham was being helped out of the car by a man in his early forties. Dora remembered seeing him at Jack’s funeral. He had a soft-boned face that probably hadn’t changed significantly since he was seven or eight. The impression of boyishness was enhanced as he gently slipped his arm through Alicia’s, almost as if he were helping his favourite granny up the steps for tea and scones. They were followed by a thin, nervous-looking woman in a floral print dress and a small, plump, gingery man who was mopping his forehead vigorously with a hankie.

  Sheila nodded in their direction. ‘Local,’ she said approvingly.

  ‘Who is?’

  Sheila picked off each of the car’s occupants with a well-aimed finger. ‘That’s Guy Phelps, new Conservative candidate, his wife, Elizabeth. She’s in our flower-arranging circle for the hospital. Mrs Markham, of course. I don’t know who the other man is.’

  Though the occasion hardly seemed to warrant it, there was a fusillade of flash bulbs as Guy Phelps made his
way up the steps followed by a press of reporters. Josephine Hammond from the Fairbeach Gazette was among them. On the landing, at the top of the first flight, Guy Phelps lifted his hands and smiled beatifically, setting off another volley of bulbs.

  ‘Lovely day. It’s really very nice of you all to come.’ He skilfully manoeuvred his wife onto his other arm, turning left and right to ensure everyone got a good look at him, and beamed.

  ‘I’ve always firmly believed in supporting local events. Bring and buy is a British institution, a traditional family occasion. I really think there should be more of this sort of thing. Village fêtes, jumble sales, coffee mornings. Events of this kind bind a community together. We, in the Conservative party, firmly believe family life is the very cornerstone of our nation’s continued success.’ He spoke in a carefully modulated, musical voice, slightly louder than the questions being asked by the reporters around him.

  Dora stared down from her vantage point at the top of the steps and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she loathed him.

  Sheila glanced at her watch. ‘Two o’clock, the doors ought to be open by now.’

  The queue parted like the Red Sea to let Mr Phelps and his small entourage get to the ornate double doors. As he reached the top, two committee ladies in hats waved their hands for silence. Behind them, the doors of the Corn Exchange slowly opened so that Guy Phelps was framed in cavernous darkness.

  The man in a uniform scuttled across the top step carrying a microphone. One of the women coughed into it and then began to speak in a high-pitched, piping voice.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as chairwoman of the local fundraising committee, we were absolutely delighted when Mr Phelps, our new Conservative candidate, accepted our invitation to open our sale today. I’m sure you will join me in wishing him every success in the forthcoming by-election. No doubt you’re all terribly keen to get inside, so, without further ado, here is Mr Guy Phelps to say a few words.’ There was a polite flurry of applause.

  Guy Phelps smiled again and nodded his thanks to the blushing woman.

  As he turned towards the crowd, Dora thought for one wonderful moment that Guy Phelps might break into song. He dipped one shoulder forward and angled his body so his face was caught in three-quarter profile. He smiled, looking up from under his eyebrows, while surreptitiously sliding a slim bundle of cards from his jacket pocket.

  ‘Thank you for those kind words, Mrs Hillier. Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to have been asked to open the spring bring and buy today. Over the years, my wife and I …’

  ‘It’s past two o’clock already,’ said a disgruntled woman at the foot of the steps. Sheila nodded her agreement.

  ‘Nearly five past by my watch,’ added another. A grumble of discontent from the crowd rolled forwards and up towards the Corn Exchange doors.

  There was a slight, uneasy pause, but Guy Phelps’ smile held firm. He took a deep breath and held up his hands.

  ‘So, with no more ado, it gives me the greatest pleasure to declare this spring bring and buy sale open,’ he said, and instantly stepped aside.

  There was a muted cheer, a fragment of applause and then the crowd moved up the steps as a single body. Dora was carried along on the tide. Sheila at her shoulder. As they reached the line of tables across the entrance, the front runners already had their admission fee ready. Sheila pressed forty pence into the hand of a capable Conservative and steered Dora inside.

  For a split second Dora was aware of how big, how high and how empty the hall was, with its colourful outcrops of trestle tables and bright stalls. The impression was lost as the crowd poured in around them, like waves of bright water, flowing and rolling out along the aisles.

  They were barely past the first table before Sheila made a break for the cake stall on the far side of the hall. Dora knew she wasn’t that quick or that determined, and instead let herself drift along on the current, carried this way and that by the swirling eddies of bargain hunters.

  In a quiet backwater she bought a box of home-made Turkish delight and a bag of fudge. The fudge was wonderful, creamy, soft –

  ‘Had any good breakins recently?’

  Dora, still with her mouth full, looked up in astonishment. Josephine Hammond was standing beside her, fingering a rather nice cream cotton sweater on the Nearly New table.

  Dora took a deep breath, swallowing the fudge down in an unwieldy lump. ‘Shouldn’t you be over there with the rest of the news hounds, waiting for Guy Phelps to say something infinitely wise and quotable?’

  Josephine grinned. ‘Probably, but I’m not sure I’ve got that many years left in me. Besides, I never could resist a bargain. I’ve left Gary, my photographer, over there to keep an eye on him. What’s he going to say? “Nice sponge, what a lovely baby. I think the cake weighs four pounds twelve ounces”?’

  Dora pulled a face. ‘You’re very cynical for one so young,’ she observed wryly.

  Josephine snorted. ‘So would you be, it comes with the job. NUJ stands for naturally unimpressed and jaded. I’ve had about six hours’ sleep in three days and no prospect of a let up.’ She grinned. ‘So, do you want to tell me all about this Catiana Moran thing, or have I got to beat it out of you?’

  Dora lifted an eyebrow.

  Josephine Hammond offered the woman behind the stall a pound for the cream sweater. The woman wanted two, they settled on one fifty.

  Dora realised she hadn’t moved and wondered why. Maybe, she thought, it was because she might like Josephine Hammond. Two snap character assessments in one afternoon. She offered Josephine the bag of fudge.

  ‘Here, why don’t you try this. Your dentist can settle up with me later.’

  Josephine grinned and teased a large square off the top. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  Josephine pressed on despite having her mouth full.

  ‘This Catiana Moran thing? We know there was another breakin last night. At her new place, down by the river. My bat senses tell me something big is on the boil.’

  Dora resisted the temptation to tell Josephine she’d already seen her camped outside the front door of Lillian’s flat, and instead palmed another piece of fudge into her mouth.

  ‘Really?’ She lifted her eyebrows again to imply a wider question.

  Josephine nodded. ‘There’s something very fishy about all this. I’ve left a message with her agent, Calvin Roberts. I got the last interview with her through him.’ She paused as if trying to puzzle out a connection. ‘And who is Lillian Bliss? Her name is on the lease –’

  Dora swallowed back a choke, as Josephine suddenly spotted a Next sweater on the table with a two-pound price tag.

  At the adjoining table, Sarah Roberts, Calvin’s wife, was holding up a white silk Windsmoor blouse against her chest. She and Dora made eye contact and recognised each other just as Calvin, red-faced and obviously bored senseless, appeared at Sarah’s shoulder with their two daughters in tow.

  It felt uncannily like an ambush.

  Calvin spotted Dora and grinned.

  ‘Hello, Dora. How’s it going? Lillian okay? I’ll –’ He stopped, as Josephine Hammond looked up and a flash of recognition ricocheted across the Nearly New. It was followed by wonderful, awe-inspiring, breath-stopping silence.

  Josephine looked first at Dora and then at Calvin, quickly weighed up her options, then edged her way purposefully around the table, still clutching the Next sweater.

  ‘Mr Roberts, I’ve been trying to get hold of you since the breakin last night. About Catiana Moran. I wondered if you might be able …’

  Dora didn’t wait for Josephine to figure that maybe she’d made the wrong choice, and headed instead towards the cake stall and Sheila.

  Sheila was triumphant. ‘Lemon drizzle cake, two packets of those madeleine-things the kids like, and I got a nice little stainless steel sieve, thirty pence.’

  Dora, one eye on the crowd, smiled. ‘That’s wonderful. I’m sorry but I’ve really got to be going now. You d
on’t mind if I leave you here on your own, do you?’

  Sheila rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘I’ve just asked the lady to put a pineapple upside-down cake and some flapjacks on one side for you.’

  Dora nodded distractedly. She watched Josephine Hammond’s striking red hair as she made her way through the crowd of bargain hunters, scanning left and right like ginger radar.

  ‘Would you get them for me? I’ll pay you later, I really have got to be going,’ Dora said hastily.

  Sheila puffed out her cheeks. ‘All right, I’ll bring them round to yours on my way home.’

  ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll …”

  Dora started to protest when she saw Miss Hammond break cover over by the bottled preserves and mixed pickles.

  ‘I’ll ring you when I get home,’ she said, with a forced smile and hurried towards the exit.

  Outside, the bright sunshine made her blink. Although it was market day and the market place was full of more stalls and even more bargain hunters, Dora let out a long sigh of relief, pulled her jacket around her and hurried down the steps. The sense of having escaped didn’t last – where could she go? Narrow streets radiated off from the main square, down to the river, up towards the library, back towards the shops. She hesitated – they all looked remarkably like ideal places for another ambush.

  Lillian Bliss was still holding court at Gunners Terrace, Sheila and Josephine Hammond were loose in Fairbeach and they would both be looking for her, if not now, then very soon. She opened her handbag – she’d left her car keys back at the flat.

  Taking a quick glance back over her shoulder to make sure Josephine Hammond hadn’t seen her leave, Dora headed off down between the rows of market stalls to the shopping precinct, out through the bus station, to a rank of telephone boxes.

  She pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and tapped in Jon Melrose’s Keelside number and listened to the distant ringing sound with some trepidation. What if he didn’t want to talk to her?