by Simon Brett
Mrs. Pargeter's pound of flesh
( Mrs. Pargeter - 4 )
Simon Brett
Simon Brett
Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh
Chapter One
‘Eleven stone three pounds.’ There was only a hint of intonation in the girl’s voice as the digital display of the weighing machine settled. It was an intonation that could have inspired guilt and the resolve to slim in a susceptible person.
Mrs Pargeter was not such a person. ‘Yes, that’s about right,’ she said comfortably in her cockney-tinged accent as she stepped off the platform.
‘There are a few other measurements we take for all new arrivals at Brotherton Hall,’ the white-uniformed girl, whose plastic name-badge identified her as ‘Lindy Galton’, recited from a much-repeated script. ‘Bust, waist, hips, obviously, and height…’
‘Why, you haven’t got any treatment that can change people’s height, have you?’ asked Mrs Pargeter curiously.
The girl coloured. ‘Well, no…’
‘Good. Because the only ones I’ve heard of to do that are decapitation and the rack, and I don’t think either is a recommended health spa practice, is it?’
Lindy Galton looked at the older woman uncertainly. She wasn’t used to such behaviour from new arrivals. Plenty of them made nervous jokes about their outlines or proportions as they mounted the scales, but few demonstrated this kind of comfortable good humour. And few, come to that, accepted with such equanimity the confirmation that they were overweight. By definition, most arrivals at a health spa are dissatisfied with their bodies; yet this new woman, this plump and white-haired Mrs Pargeter, seemed to inhabit hers with tranquillity and even delight.
The friend, though, a frizzy natural blonde in her late forties, who was even now stripping off her Brotherton Hall towelling gown to step on to the scales, reacted in a much more traditional way. ‘I’m afraid there’s rather a lot of me,’ she giggled as she shook off her flip-flops. ‘Mrs Cellulite, my oldest daughter calls me.’
This woman, ‘Kim Thurrock’ according to the details on Lindy Galton’s clipboard, had a much less serious weight problem than her friend, but it worried her a lot more. Abstractedly, Lindy noted a roll of fat above the knicker line, some flabbiness in the thighs and upper arms, but no worse than on the average female body that has survived forty-eight years and borne three children. Lindy spent her working life looking at such bodies and had never been judgemental about them, even though few compared to her own finely tuned and finely toned instrument.
The health spa — latest incarnation of many for the splendid eighteenth-century Brotherton Hall — only accepted female ‘guests’. And the owner of Brotherton Hall, Mr Arkwright, insisted that all his female staff had perfect bodies. This was not for his own benefit — Mr Arkwright was punctiliously correct in such matters, never guilty of the mildest verbal sexism or ambiguous pat on a passing buttock — it was simply a marketing ploy.
Mr Arkwright knew he ran a business founded on guilt and envy; and he knew that the perfect physical condition of his female staff was bound to stimulate both in his customers, leading them to spend more time and money in pursuit of comparable excellence. Mr Arkwright had been called many things in his varied career, but never a fool.
Mrs Pargeter looked at her friend, giggling self-consciously on the platform. Even though nearly twenty years her senior, Mrs Pargeter had always felt a great affinity to Kim. The younger woman’s husband, known universally as ‘Thicko’ Thurrock, had been an associate of the late Mr Pargeter, and the two women had met frequently at functions connected with the business.
Mrs Pargeter spent a lot of time at the Thurrocks’ tiny house in Catford. Contentedly childless herself, she had taken great interest in the arrival and development of the Thurrocks’ three daughters, and was always enthusiastically welcomed at the house by the family’s poodles. She had found Kim’s company and sympathy invaluable when Mr Pargeter died.
There had always been a bond of willing obligation between the two women, and so when Kim Thurrock let slip the fact that she was worried about her weight, Mrs Pargeter had been only too happy to fix up the three days at Brotherton Hall.
She had also been fully prepared to fund the visit. The late Mr Pargeter had left his widow lavishly provided for, and she was always happy to help out a friend in less comfortable circumstances.
As it transpired, however, payment at Brotherton Hall was not required. Mr Arkwright (known at earlier stages of his career as Ankle-Deep’ Arkwright from the habit of dipping his toe into a great variety of endeavours) was another associate of the late Mr Pargeter and, once he had recovered from his delight at hearing from his former boss’s widow and understood her request, would not hear of — indeed, was deeply offended by the suggestion of — any money changing hands.
‘After all your husband done for me, Mrs P,’ (in moments of emotion the manicured syntax with which he greeted visitors to Brotherton Hall might occasionally lapse), ‘it’s the very least I could do for you. Stay a week, stay a fortnight, stay a month, bring all the friends you’ve got! Be my pleasure to look after you.’
So once again Mrs Pargeter had had reason to be grateful for the late Mr Pargeter’s most precious legacy — his address-book, a compendium of contacts which could procure a surprising range of unconventional services.
She was particularly glad to be able to help Kim, because of the younger woman’s unfortunate circumstances. These were only in part financial. Her husband, Thicko Thurrock, was a man of great warmth and gentleness, but it was not for nothing that he had earned his nickname. While benefiting from the wise tutelage of the late Mr Pargeter he had been well protected, but, with the death of his mentor, soon found himself mixing in less savoury areas of business and with less savoury associates.
It was from then only a matter of time before something went wrong. Something did, outside a branch of the Halifax Building Society in Clerkenwell, and Thicko Thurrock was invited to spend seven years as a guest of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second (though not at Buckingham Palace — and the invitation’s RSVP had not offered the option of refusal).
Mrs Pargeter had watched with increasing admiration the effort Kim Thurrock put into keeping the family together during her husband’s unavoidable absence; but it was clear as the end of the seven years drew near that Kim was increasingly uneasy at the prospect of Thicko’s return.
The minimum of probing had identified the problem. There was nothing basically wrong with the relationship — the couple still adored each other — but Kim Thurrock had totally lost confidence in her continuing sexual attractiveness. No amount of reassurance could persuade her away from the conviction that seven years had changed her into ‘an old boot’ and that her husband, on his return to the marital nest, would take one careful look at what was on offer there before immediately walking out to shack up with a twenty-year-old.
Mrs Pargeter had tried every argument she knew, the main one being that Thicko wasn’t that kind of man, but to no avail. Kim’s self-esteem had sunk too low to be resuscitated by logic. More extreme measures would be needed.
It was at this point that Mrs Pargeter had thought of Ankle-Deep Arkwright and Brotherton Hall; and, from the moment she mentioned the idea, she knew she had found the right solution. Kim positively sparkled at the prospect, perhaps not only of losing weight but also of having a break from pampering three small girls, and even of being a little pampered herself.
As Mrs Pargeter looked at her friend giggling girlishly on the weighing machine that Sunday evening, she felt the warm glow of having done the right thing.
Chapter Two
Weekdays or weekends, the
evening meal at Brotherton Hall was taken early — at half-past six, which to Mrs Pargeter’s mind was no time to be eating an evening meal. Nor did what was put in front of her conform with her definition of what an evening meal should be.
At the centre of a large plate some leaves of lettuce and other subservient greenery abased themselves before a little mound of cottage cheese. Now Mrs Pargeter was a broad-minded woman of generous spirit. There were few things in the world that riled her enough to make a fuss; but one of that tiny minority was cottage cheese.
She didn’t know whether it was the appearance that offended her most, its close resemblance to what can be seen at the bottom of a just-stirred pot of Non-Drip Brilliant White Vinyl Matt Emulsion; or the slippery nothingness of its touch against her tongue; or the taste, that failed aspiration to piquancy and resulting compromise of slight unpleasantness. Probably more than any of these, what put Mrs Pargeter off cottage cheese was the expression of sanctimonious righteousness worn by its habitual eaters.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t think this is right.’
There was nothing peremptory in her tone, just a gentle pointing-out of an error in the menu distribution. The waitress consulted a list. ‘You’re Mrs Pargeter, aren’t you?’ And, on receipt of confirmation, ‘No, that is right. You’re on the same diet as Mrs Thurrock.’
‘But.’ Mrs Pargeter pointed to her plate, confident of the monosyllable’s eloquence.
Kim jollied her along. ‘Come on, Melita. No slacking. We’re in this together. Il faut souffrir pour etre belle.’ (She had taken advantage of the last seven years’ enforced solitude to improve her education at evening classes.)
Mrs Pargeter realized she was in a cleft stick (a particularly uncomfortable metaphor for a woman of her ample proportions). Kim had been reluctant to accept charity, and had only agreed to the Brotherton Hall visit when her friend had invented a pretext of needing support in her own battle against excess poundage. Mrs Pargeter was obliged therefore to make at least a gesture towards slimming during their stay.
A brainwave struck her. ‘Oh yes, I know I’m meant to be on the same diet, but I forgot to mention any allergy.’
The word had the desired effect; a cowed look of respect appeared in the waitress’s eye. ‘Ah, Dr Potter usually deals with allergies, but I’m afraid he’s not in this evening.’
‘Then I’d better see Mr Arkwright.’ Without sacrificing any of its charm, Mrs Pargeter’s voice allowed no possibility of denial.
She rose to her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Kim… I’ll have to just go and sort this out.’
‘Yes, of course.’
The waitress looked dubiously down at Mrs Pargeter’s plate. ‘Not quite sure what I should do about this, though.’
She was rewarded by a sweet smile. ‘Well, my friend’s helping isn’t very large. I’m sure she could manage mine too.’
The waitress’s expression left no doubt that Mrs Pargeter had found the quickest route to blasphemy at Brotherton Hall.
‘So, about this allergy, Mrs Pargeter…?’ said Mr Arkwright, seated in the comfort of his flat on the top floor of Brotherton Hall’s East Wing.
‘Well, cottage cheese is the main thing, really…’ she confided, ‘but this does sort of affect other things…’
‘Like?’
‘Well, for example, I find that I’m allergic to salad on its own.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know, when it hasn’t got any meat with it.’
‘Ah?’
‘And in fact I’m very nearly allergic to salad with meat. Certainly cold meat. I’m much less allergic to hot meat with lots of nice hot vegetables and then, if there has to be salad… well, if it’s just a kind of garnish, I’m not so allergic to that.’
Mr Arkwright made a considerable business of writing some notes down on a clipboard. ‘We’ll certainly bear that in mind, Mrs Pargeter, in devising the optimum diet for your condition. Anything else we should watch on the allergy front?’
‘Well, I find I’m quite allergic to not having three good big meals a day. And I’m totally allergic to not having any wine with my dinner.’
‘You have a bad reaction to that?’
‘Bad? Oh, I’ll say! Positively life-threatening.’
‘Hm…’ Mr Arkwright looked long and thoughtfully at the pad in front of him, but his musings were interrupted by a knock on the door of his dining-room. ‘Come in.’
A squat man in waiter’s uniform, who looked to be as wide as he was tall, entered carrying a tray whose contents were hidden by silver domes and crisp napkins. Mrs Pargeter smiled at him, but he seemed pointedly to avoid her eye.
‘Thank you, Stan. If you could put it down and prepare Mrs Pargeter’s medication…’
The waiter complied and, when the preparation was complete, handed Mrs Pargeter a glass.
She took it cautiously. ‘Is it meant to bubble like that?’
Ankle-Deep Arkwright grinned, unable to maintain the charade any longer. ‘Dom Perignon usually does. And don’t worry, we’ve got a nice claret to go with the steak.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers, Mrs P. Great to see you.’
Chapter Three
‘Mm, delicious,’ said Mrs Pargeter, as she scooped up the last of the cream that had deluged her creme brulee. ‘Just delicious.’
‘Well, you’ll have made Gaston’s night,’ said Ankle-Deep Arkwright.
‘Gaston?’
‘Chef. He gets so pissed off with what he usually has to do here — you know, lettuce au cottage cheese, cottage cheese au lettuce, lettuce au lettuce, cottage cheese au cottage cheese, all that stuff. Order for a proper meal and he’s in seventh heaven. ’Cause he’s the real business, you know — trained in Switzerland, ran a restaurant in Covent Garden, done the lot.’
‘So why’s he here?’
“Cause I asked him to come here. Looks good on the brochure — “meals individually prepared by our internationally known chef, Gaston Lenoir”. Lot of the snootier old biddies go for that.’
‘Even though they’re only going to have him “individually preparing” cottage cheese for them?’
‘Yeah. Daft, isn’t it? None of them seem to think that one through. But you got to be up with what the other health spas are offering. Always keep your ear to the ground in this business. You know, if you hear another health spa’s doing Sargasso Seaweed Massage, you got to do Sargasso Seaweed Massage. If they’re offering Dead Sea Mud Baths, you got to offer Dead Sea Mud Baths.’
‘And do you actually offer Dead Sea Mud Baths?’
‘You bet. Very effective. One of our most popular treatments. Straighten out your Dead Sea Scrolls for you in no time, madam!’
It came back to Mrs Pargeter that amongst the varied stages of Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s career had been a spell as a stand-up comic. She accorded his little joke a little smile, which seemed to relieve him. ‘Going back to Gaston, though, “Ank”’ — she deliberately used the diminutive that the late Mr Pargeter had coined — ‘has he always been a chef?’
‘No, he used to be an accountant and… Hey, just a minute.. ’ Recollection dawned. ‘You know him, Mrs P.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He worked with Mr Pargeter. He done the budgeting side on Milton Keynes.’ A note of awe came into his voice at the mention of one of the late Mr Pargeter’s most spectacular business coups. ‘Didn’t your old man never mention him to you?’
‘Gaston? No, I never heard of anyone called Gaston.’
‘No, well, of course he wasn’t called Gaston in them days, was he? Called Bennett Wilson, that’s his real name — “Nitty” for short. Come on, he done that job in Streatham too… you know, that security van. You must remember. The one that went wrong.’
A slight frost had settled on Mrs Pargeter’s amiable features. ‘My late husband never talked to me about his work. He was always of the opinion that his business life and his home life should be kept well separated.’
‘Can see his
point. Very sensible that — given the kind of business it was. I mean, it’s always the case, isn’t it — what your old lady don’t know, she can’t stand up in court and…’
The end of the sentence trickled away as Ankle-Deep Arkwright caught the full blistering beam of Mrs Pargeter’s violet eyes. With deliberate tact, he misinterpreted the cause of her displeasure. ‘Sorry, don’t know what come over me — calling you an “old lady” and that. Very sorry.’
Mrs Pargeter’s sudden frost was caused not only by her habitual desire to know as little as possible about her late husband’s business affairs (a desire, incidentally, that he had enthusiastically encouraged), but also by the mention of Streatham.
The late Mr Pargeter’s involvement with Streatham had not been one of his most successful business enterprises. Indeed the venture had gone so badly wrong that its aftermath had kept him absent from the conjugal home for some three years.
Mrs Pargeter had felt this enforced separation keenly. Partly, this was because of the close and loving relationship which she and her husband shared, which meant that she had missed him rotten. But her pain had been aggravated by the fact that she knew he had been betrayed in Streatham by one of his closest associates.
Though she kept knowledge of her husband’s business affairs to a minimum, the conversation of the men he delegated to ‘keep an eye on her’ during his involuntary absence did not allow her to be completely unaware of what had happened.
The villain had been Julian Embridge, an unsuccessful research chemist whose fortunes had changed remarkably when he had been taken under her husband’s ever-philanthropic wing. The late Mr Pargeter found employment for many varied talents in his spreading empire, and at that time had decided (from a purely altruistic love of knowledge and respect for the sciences) that he wished to direct some of his resources towards chemical research into the comparative efficacy of different explosives.