A Necessary End E-Book

Hazel Holt

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Sheila Malory Mystery
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 313

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

When Sheila Malory reluctantly agrees to help out in one of Taviscombe's charity shops, she is warned about the 'control freak' manager Desmond Barlow. But still, surely no-one would wish him harm? When his lifeless body is discovered, Sheila finds herself at the heart of the investigation. Unofficially, of course.

Leseprobe

A Necessary End

HAZEL HOLT

For Geoffrey, who never got to read this one

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyAbout the AuthorBy Hazel HoltCopyright

Chapter One

‘It’s only for a couple of days a week,’ Monica said. ‘Well, three days actually.’

‘I really don’t think—’ I said.

‘It’s quite fun,’ she said brightly, ‘and such a good cause. I hate to let them down, but Julie really needs me – moving house with a new baby, and he was premature, you know, they were really worried about him, in an incubator for over a week. So you do see …’

‘Well, yes …’

‘It would only be for a few weeks, a month at the most.’

‘Really, I don’t know if I can.’

‘Jean and Wendy you know, of course, they’re very nice. They’d be working on your days. And on the other days there’s Margaret and Dorothy. Norma works every day – she’s a bit full-on but really splendid.’

‘But I’ve never done anything like that before. They may not want me.’

‘Oh, they’re absolutely desperate, anyone would be welcome.’

In spite of this doubtful assurance I finally agreed to take over Monica’s duties at the charity shop, beginning on the following Tuesday.

‘You must be mad!’ Rosemary said. ‘Tying yourself down like that. Anything might crop up – suppose Michael and Thea need you to look after Alice.’

‘Oh, I expect they’re quite flexible about exchanging days.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Not with Norma Stanley in charge, she’s dreadfully domineering.’

‘I don’t think she’s actually in charge; it’s Wendy’s husband, Desmond. He looks after things – a sort of supervisor, I think.’

‘Well, he’s no better – a total control freak. Honestly, Sheila, you’re so feeble about saying no to people, can’t you get out of it?’

‘Not really. Anyway,’ I said defensively, ‘it might be quite interesting.’

Rosemary sighed. ‘Well don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

Rosemary’s right, of course – I do find it difficult to say no (a reasonably active widow is considered fair game), hence my presence on far too many committees. Still, I told myself, it was only three days a week, for a few weeks (well, a month) and the hours weren’t too taxing, so there’d be time for other things. And anyway, it would be something different, coming into contact with new people all the time, and, as Monica said, it was for a good cause.

Nevertheless, as I approached the shop I did feel distinctly apprehensive. Monica was there to greet me, and Jean Lucas and Wendy Barlow were familiar and friendly faces. However, when Norma Stanley appeared from the back of the shop, I remembered with dismay that she was the new and difficult member just elected to the committee of Brunswick Lodge, the main centre of social activities in the town. Denis Painton, our chairman, had taken me to one side after the meeting and said grimly, ‘We’re going to have trouble with that one.’

Certainly she was a formidable figure – tall, with the sort of short, impeccably cut grey hair that often seems to indicate a forceful personality. Her voice was not unpleasing but with just that edge to it that indicates a tendency to command. However, she appeared to be in a gracious mood.

‘So very good of you, Sheila – I may call you Sheila? We are all quite informal here; we work as a team.’ Monica moved forward preparing to show me round but Norma continued, ‘Now, I’ll just give you a brief idea of how things work and then we’ll find you something to do – nothing too complicated for your first day here. Monica will show you the ropes before she goes. Tomorrow I’ll take you through all the health and safety procedures.’

‘So, what was it like?’ Rosemary was on the phone almost as soon as I got in.

‘Well,’ I said cautiously, ‘it’s a bit early to say. It seems quite straightforward – unpacking the stuff that comes in and sorting it. I’m not allowed to use the steamer yet – that’s very health and safety – and certainly not the till, which they seem to regard as something as complicated as the Enigma machine and not to be trusted to anyone without a degree in technology! Norma likes to keep an eye on that herself.’

‘Ah, the dreaded Norma. How did you get on with her?’

‘She remembered me from the Brunswick Lodge committee, so she wasn’t quite as patronising to me as she is to the others. Gracious, you might say. Queen to lady-in-waiting rather than queen to peasant.’

Rosemary laughed. ‘Dreadful woman. She came across Mother at some coffee morning or other and made the mistake of talking down to her as if she was an Elderly Person – she soon got put in her place and kept well away from Mother after that.’

‘I wish I’d seen it.’

‘Mother said, “What can you expect from someone who comes from the Midlands?”’

‘Oh dear. Well, they seem to be very well off, and then he inherited this large house just outside Taviscombe from his aunt, which is why they moved down here.’

‘What’s the husband like – a mousy little man?’

‘No, actually, he’s tall and rather distinguished-looking. Obviously dotes on her. According to Denis, he jumps to attention every time she speaks!’

‘Well, I wish you joy of her. I wonder how she gets on with Desmond Barlow – I bet there’ll be some clashes there.’

‘I haven’t seen him in action yet – he came in after I’d left, to collect the money and take it to the bank. I’m sure Norma resents that!’

I was to work in the shop on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays (which would leave me a lovely long weekend, Monica said brightly) and on the Wednesday Desmond came early while I was still there. Immediately the atmosphere, which had been fairly relaxed in spite of Norma’s bossiness, changed. Jean and Wendy went over to the shelves at the back and began busily rearranging the books and DVDs and Norma moved across and stood guard over the till, as if defying him to come anywhere near it. I pretended to sort through the rack of blouses, keeping my ears open for any exchange.

‘Who changed the window display?’ Desmond asked brusquely.

‘I did,’ Norma said, moving even closer to the till. ‘It was far too crowded with things. What one needs in a window display is one really good object that stands out and draws the attention, with other related objects carefully placed around it. I think you will agree that the new arrangement is very striking.’

‘I don’t think you have quite considered what we are here for,’ Desmond said smoothly. ‘I’m sure a degree of sophistication, while admirable in Bond Street, say, is not really suitable for a charity shop in Taviscombe. You see, people are not concerned with the artistic values of a window display, what they actually want to know is what we have inside. So if you could very kindly put it back the way it was.’

I held my breath and waited for Norma’s reply. There was complete silence for what seemed like an age, then she said coldly, ‘Very well; if that’s what you want, naturally, since you are in charge, we will do so.’

He smiled smoothly. ‘Thank you. Now, if you have the takings ready I’ll get them over to the bank.’

They both moved into the back room and I looked across at Wendy to see how she’d taken her husband’s remarks. But she had her head down, apparently intent on sorting out some paperbacks. As they came back into the shop, Desmond stopped beside her and said, ‘Did you get my grey suit from the cleaners?’

‘Well, no – they weren’t open when I came in and I had to queue for ages in the lunch hour with that parcel you wanted posted.’

‘Then perhaps,’ he said, ‘you had better go now, before they shut.’

Wendy looked appealingly at Norma who raised her eyebrows and said, ‘It’s not really convenient, but, of course, if Desmond wants you to …’

Wendy rushed to the door and went out without even putting on her coat. She was back a moment later saying breathlessly, ‘Forgot my handbag!’

As the door closed behind her Desmond gave a theatrical sigh but made no comment.

When Jean and I were getting our things together to go home, she looked around to see if we could be overheard and said, ‘Honestly, I don’t know how she puts up with it – Wendy, I mean. It’s awful the way he speaks to her, as if she’s some sort of servant! He’s always criticising her – poor thing, he’s destroyed any bit of confidence she’s ever had.’

‘I was rather shocked,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen them together before.’

‘It’s all right with someone like Norma, she can take it – and dish it out too. That wretched husband of hers is another doormat. But poor Wendy is such an inoffensive little thing, everyone feels sorry for her. Well, it wouldn’t suit me!’

‘Do you know Desmond Barlow?’ I asked Michael when he came round to ask me if I’d collect Alice from the riding stables at the weekend.

‘I’ve come across him in connection with a couple of charitable trusts – he’s a great one for good works, on all sorts of committees and stuff, and I believe he’s a lay preacher too.’

‘Well, someone ought to tell him that charity begins at home,’ I said. ‘The way he treats his wife is abominable.’

‘He does have a great line in sarcasm. Not very pleasant but he does get things done. An active retired man is always in demand, so people put up with his unpleasant manner.’

‘They’re not local – where did they come from?’

‘Somewhere in the Midlands, I think. He was some sort of civil engineer, used to laying down the law. Anyway, I’d better be going, I’ve got a site meeting in half an hour.’ He put the box of eggs he’d brought on the kitchen table. ‘Can you take another dozen? Now Thea’s got these other hens we’re getting a bit overstocked.’

I gradually got used to the work at the shop and (having been instructed in minute detail about the health and safety procedures) was allowed to wheel bags and boxes of contributions on the trolley and grudgingly shown how to use the till by Norma (‘It’s because it’s electronic, you see’), though I was not yet considered sufficiently advanced to use the steamer (‘We have to be very strict about who uses it’). I found it was possible to cope with Norma by agreeing with everything she said, no matter what, and, fortunately, I had very little to do with Desmond Barlow. Norma did introduce us formally the next time he came in, and when he discovered that I was Michael’s mother (Michael being a useful contact), he treated me with a sort of smooth courtesy that I found more disagreeable than his sarcastic attitude towards the others.

Jean, who was very outspoken, had constant arguments with Norma, while Wendy kept her head down and obeyed Norma’s brisk instructions meekly and without comment. She was the one who was best with the customers, endlessly patient and helpful with even the most difficult ones. It was Wendy, too, who noticed if you were feeling tired or stressed and appeared at your elbow with a cup of tea and a word of sympathy.

One day when I came back into the shop from the storeroom I saw her talking to a young man. I couldn’t hear what they were saying and didn’t like to approach too closely because he seemed very agitated and she looked anxious and upset. I was a bit worried about them – some of our customers can be odd or difficult and there was no one else in the shop. There were no other customers and Norma had gone out (‘I have to drive out to Porlock to collect some rather good items that Mrs Forbes-Grayson has promised us’), so I went back into the storeroom to find Jean.

‘There’s a young man in the shop who seems to be upsetting Wendy,’ I said. ‘He’s in a bit of a state. Should we do something?’

Jean came and peered round the door. ‘Oh no, that’s all right. It’s John, her son. He’s at university – Durham I think it is, or Nottingham, somewhere like that. I suppose he’s back for the Easter holiday.’

‘Are they all right?’ I asked. ‘They both seem very upset.’

‘Oh, he’s a bit neurotic, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t get on with his father – well, who would? He sometimes comes into the shop to talk to his mother. They can’t really talk at home, not with Desmond finding fault with every word either of them says!’

‘Goodness, how awful.’

‘It’s not the way I’d like to live. I’ll go and put the kettle on – she’ll need a cup of tea, poor soul. It’s usually about something unpleasant when he comes in like that.’

I heard the shop door shut and went back in to find Wendy looking very distressed.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked tentatively.

She looked for a moment as if she was going to say something. Then she gave a wan little smile, said, ‘Yes, I’m fine. Can you take over here?’ and went into the storeroom.

I thought it would be tactful to leave her to Jean and the cup of tea that she obviously needed.

I asked Rosemary what she knew about Desmond Barlow.

‘I’ve only met him a few times, at the occasional dinner party and so on. Not a nice person – always has to be right about everything and, like I said, a control freak.’

‘Michael says he’s a great one for good works.’

‘That’s as maybe. It’s all a bit ostentatious – “Look what a splendid person I am”, that sort of thing. Edna Palmer – you remember her, her son married Jilly’s best friend Susan.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘You must remember; she wore that hideous mauve outfit for the wedding – a designer label, she said.’

‘Oh yes, I do. And she went around at the reception telling everyone how much the wedding was costing them! So what about her?’

‘Oh yes. Well, she goes to Desmond Barlow’s church – the one he’s a lay reader at – and she said he’s offended a lot of the congregation, trying to take over too much from the vicar there. Poor man, the vicar that is, he was grateful at first for the help – he’s got three parishes to cover – but it’s really getting out of hand, Edna says. The Barlow person is going around laying down the law about parish matters and organising things without any sort of consultation, just as if he’s the vicar of St Mary’s himself.’

‘I can quite believe it,’ I said.

‘And he’s got that wretched wife of his working her fingers to the bone with coffee mornings and things.’

‘I saw their son the other day; he came into the shop to talk to Wendy. It looked as if he was telling her something upsetting – she was quite distressed and looked awful when he’d gone.’

‘He’s another poor soul, according to Edna. Apparently he’s the artistic type, not at all academic, but his father somehow got him into Nottingham University to read law and he hates it and is really miserable.’

‘Oh dear, other people’s lives!’

‘Well, yes, but I do think Wendy Barlow might stand up for herself a bit more, for her son’s sake as well as her own.’

‘I don’t think she’s capable of standing up to anyone – she’s just as bad with Norma. Some people just don’t have it in them.’

‘I suppose so,’ Rosemary said doubtfully. Rosemary, bless her, is a great one for standing up for other people as well as for herself. ‘Actually,’ she went on, ‘Edna says they’re having a coffee morning and produce sale at St Mary’s this coming Saturday – do you fancy going along to see the dreaded Desmond in action there?’

Chapter Two

The church hall was quite busy when we arrived and most of the produce had gone, but Rosemary got some shortbread and a couple of tomato plants and I found a well-grown fuchsia that would go nicely in one of my planters. We found an empty table at the far end where the refreshments were being served, and Rosemary sat down while I went to get the coffees. Wendy was serving and she looked surprised to see me.

‘Edna Palmer told us about it,’ I said, ‘and I can never resist a produce sale! It’s being very well supported.’

‘Yes, we usually have a good turnout and everyone works very hard to make it a success.’

‘The vicar will be pleased,’ I said.

‘Oh yes, though of course Desmond organised it all. Mr Nicholas – he’s our vicar – has three parishes now and so many calls on his time.’

‘He must be very grateful for all the help Desmond gives – Edna was telling us how much he does.’

‘Desmond likes to keep busy.’

‘I must let you get on,’ I said. ‘I’m holding up the queue. I’ll see you on Tuesday.’

I’d just taken the coffees back to the table when Edna arrived.

‘Well,’ she said as she pulled out a chair from one of the other tables and sat down beside us. ‘Fancy seeing you two here!’

‘We thought we’d come and see how your Mr Barlow is running things,’ Rosemary said.

‘“Running things” is right,’ Edna said scornfully. ‘Telling Beryl Robinson, who’s been in charge of the cakes for the past ten years, how she should arrange her stall! I can tell you, she nearly walked out there and then.’

‘Goodness!’ I said.

‘And Sybil Wells – she looks after the books and CDs – she said he insisted on going through all the books and changing the prices. Apparently he’d heard of someone finding a first edition of something or other that was worth a fortune. Sybil said it made her laugh to see him going through all the piles of Mills & Boon and Catherine Cookson, but then he found some old gardening book or other and took it away to look it up on the Internet.’

‘And was it valuable?’ Rosemary asked.

Edna laughed. ‘No, of course it wasn’t. He came back with it looking quite embarrassed, and Sybil gave him one of her looks and marked it, while he was there, at 50p.’

‘How splendid,’ I said.

‘Is the vicar here today?’ Rosemary asked.

‘Oh no, he always keeps well away from things Desmond Barlow is organising. Poor Mr Nicholas. He’s a nice man, but really, with all he has to do these days … well, I suppose he’s glad enough to have someone to help. And he’s not the sort of person to say anything to anyone. Sybil said she was thinking of writing to the bishop, but as I said to her, you can’t very well complain about someone doing too much in the parish!’

‘I suppose it’s better that someone does these things,’ I said, ‘rather than not have them done at all.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ Edna said, ‘but there’s been a lot of umbrage taken. Mr and Mrs Williams have left St Mary’s and now they go to the Methodist church in the Avenue. And, mark my words, they won’t be the last. It’s hard to keep up a good congregation when that sort of thing is happening.’ She caught sight of someone across the room and stood up.

‘Excuse me, I must go and speak to Beryl about the parish breakfast.’

‘And I bet,’ Rosemary said, ‘that’s being organised by Desmond Barlow as well!’

I laughed. ‘Where is he anyway? I’d have thought he’d have been keeping an eye on things, making sure everything’s going to plan.’

‘There he is – over there, talking to that man with grey hair. They seem to be having some sort of serious conversation; the other man looks quite put out.’

‘Desmond laying down the law again, I expect.’

‘I don’t know, it looks too personal for that. I wonder what it’s about.’ She got to her feet.

‘I think I’ll just go and have a look at those artificial flower arrangements.’

‘But you hate artificial flowers …’ I began as Rosemary made her way towards the stall, which was near where Desmond and the other man were standing. People are always saying how inquisitive I am, but really Rosemary’s just as bad and, when she’s particularly interested in something, even more determined.

I watched with interest as she bent to examine some of the arrangements, but only a short while after she’d got there, Desmond broke away and went off towards the refreshment area where he was obviously criticising the way Wendy was stacking up the crockery.

Rosemary, having disappointed the artificial flower seller, who’d felt sure of a sale, came back to our table.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘No luck. They’d almost finished. But there really did seem to be something going on there.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘For a start, I got the impression the man wasn’t a parishioner.’

‘Perhaps he just wanted to buy a home-made cake or a pot plant.’

Rosemary ignored my frivolous interruption. ‘There was definitely an atmosphere, some sort of tension between them. Desmond was saying, “I think, however high they take it, they’ll find it difficult to get anyone to take it seriously,” and the other man said, “Don’t think they’ll let it rest there. It’s too big a thing and too important,” and then Desmond went away and just left him before he’d even finished what he was saying.’

‘It was probably just about some committee business, nothing earth-shattering.’

‘But the man was very angry, and Desmond, in spite of that unpleasant sneering manner of his, seemed quite shaken. There was a lot of emotion going on about whatever it was.’

‘There’s a lot of emotion at Brunswick Lodge committee meetings,’ I said.

‘No, but seriously, Sheila, I do feel it was something important.’

‘Oh well, we’ll probably never know.’ I got up to join her. ‘Shall we go now? I think we’ve had all the excitement a church coffee morning can provide – whatever you think you heard. I must say, I thought you were going to have to buy that hideous beige and orange flower arrangement. It had feathers in it!’

Later, when I was tipping some old compost out of a planter to put in my new fuchsia, I did wonder what Desmond’s conversation had been about. ‘However high they take it’ and ‘Too big a thing and too important’ – it did sound more than the usual committee exchanges.

Perhaps Rosemary was right. I began to wonder what other things Desmond was involved in as well as St Mary’s and the charity shop. Michael had mentioned some trusts; it could be something to do with one of them. Perhaps that was something I could find out about which might go some way to satisfying Rosemary’s curiosity. My train of thought was broken when I realised that the planter I’d emptied had been invaded by ants. So I had to put it to one side and find another one for the fuchsia that I was now beginning to regard with dislike.

The next day, I was having Sunday lunch with the children and I took the opportunity to ask Michael a little more about Desmond Barlow.

‘Like I told you,’ Michael said as he was putting out the table mats, ‘he’s connected with a couple of charitable trusts: one’s about providing low-cost housing for people and the other’s about facilities for youth training – nothing spectacular. Why are you so interested anyway?’

‘Just because of working with him, really, and because of something Rosemary overheard at the St Mary’s coffee morning.’

‘Oh, if you and Rosemary are off on one of your wild goose chases! Poor man, little does he know what dark forces he’s unleashed.’

‘No, honestly, it was a bit odd – all about high places and things being too important to let rest.’

‘Come on, Ma, that could be anything.’

‘I suppose so, but still …’

I couldn’t pursue things because Alice came into the room carefully carrying a large salad bowl.

‘Gran, Gran – I made it myself. I mixed the dressing and everything. Oh, and I helped Mummy make the trifle for pudding – I did the jelly and put the juice on the sponge cakes.’

Alice is going through a cooking phase which we are all naturally eager to encourage, though Thea, who bears the brunt of it, has said that she does wish Alice was as excited about washing up afterwards.

I told Rosemary, when she phoned later, that, as far as I could see, there really didn’t seem to be anything sinister about Desmond’s activities; the conversation at St Mary’s was probably just him being unpleasant as usual.

I had another opportunity to observe his unpleasantness on the Tuesday. I was putting out some more skirts on the rails when I saw Desmond outside looking in the window. He stood there for quite some time, occasionally writing in a small notebook. After a while he came into the shop and walked around looking at the stock, making more notes and totally ignoring the staff and a couple of customers who watched him curiously. All this time he didn’t say a word to anyone and no one (not even Norma, who was at the till) said anything to him. After about ten minutes he went away.

Jean went into the back room and I followed her.

‘What on earth was that about?’ I asked.

She filled the kettle and switched it on before answering. ‘Oh, that’s his lordship putting us in our place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s to show us he’s in charge and is keeping an eye on things. He does it from time to time.’

‘I was surprised Norma didn’t say anything.’

‘She did the first time, but you know what he’s like. He simply put her down, so after that, rather than be made to look a fool, she gave up. It’s just one of his little ways – we don’t take much notice now.’

She stopped talking, since Wendy, who’d been out to get some biscuits, came back. I was touched to see how neither Jean nor Norma seemed to make any sort of comment about Desmond when Wendy was there. I suppose it’s because she’s such a gentle creature and we all felt so sorry for her that it would (as I told Rosemary afterwards) be like kicking a puppy to be unkind to her.

Later on, when Norma was in the shop and Wendy had left early (something she had to do for Desmond), I said to Jean, who was in the back unpacking some bric-a-brac, ‘If Desmond’s so horrible why do you all stay?’

She put down a heavy cut-glass vase carefully on the table and thought for a moment.

‘I suppose, basically, it’s because we were here first and we don’t see why someone like Desmond should drive us out. We enjoy working here, that’s why we volunteered in the first place. Wendy is here because of him, of course, and Norma is tremendously keen on her social position in the town and she thinks that doing Good Works will give her an entrée into Taviscombe society!’

I laughed. ‘I can see that, but what about the others?’

‘Margaret never married and Dorothy is a widow and her only son is in New Zealand – they need the company, it’s a bit like a family for them. Monica, as you know, was bullied into it initially by Margaret, but found she liked it and stayed on.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Oh, I’m a golf widow – Ted spends every day down at the golf club, the children are away and I got fed up stuck at home all day. I like Wendy and the others – Norma’s a bit of a pain, but I can laugh at her, so that’s all right. Besides, I think it’s a good cause, don’t you?’

‘Yes, it is. And I can see how none of you want to be pushed out of what you enjoy doing by Desmond’s unpleasantness.’

‘Exactly.’ She took another object, a grinning china cat, out of the box and looked at it critically. ‘What a grotesque-looking creature. Who on earth would buy that? Certainly not a cat lover!’

I was getting into the swing of things at the shop and quite looked forward to going in now. I was interested in the customers – some hunting for a bargain (and there were some really terrific bargains), some ‘just looking round’ and some (mostly visitors to the town) coming in out of the rain or looking for something to do when they had sampled the few entertainments the town offered. Then there were the professionals, looking for bargains that they might sell on, or hoping (like Desmond) to find some valuable object underpriced because of ignorance – though with all the antiques programmes on television these days, there’s not much chance of that. And, anyway, Desmond had a couple of dealers in from time to time to value things.

Those are the interesting ones. There are some, though, who you dread seeing – the disagreeable ones who try to beat you down over the price in an aggressive manner, some who are downright rude, the shoplifters, of course (there are always some of those), and the mad ones. There was one girl – about eighteen, perhaps younger – very thin, dressed in torn jeans and a grubby T-shirt, with long tangled hair, a lot of heavy eye make-up and piercings in her nose and eyebrows. She never bought anything but would roam round the shop, taking the garments off their hangers and leaving them draped over the rails.

‘Keep an eye on that one,’ Jean said to me one day after she’d prowled round the shop for a while and left. ‘We’ve never actually caught her taking anything, but I’m sure she does.’

‘Who is she?’ I asked. ‘Do you know?’

‘Oh yes, we know who she is. Her name’s Sophie Randall.’

‘Randall? Nothing to do with Dr Randall?’

‘His daughter. It’s very sad, really – she’s been on and off drugs, run away from home twice, and goodness knows what else.’

‘How awful. Her parents must be desperately worried.’

* * *

‘Yes, I know all about poor Sophie,’ Rosemary said. ‘I’ve only met Dr Randall a few times, but they have a younger daughter, Daisy, who’s in the same class as Delia, so I see Mrs Randall quite a bit at school things.’

‘They must be frantic – I know I would be.’

‘They’ve been through a lot. There was that time she ran away and was living in a really ghastly squat in Bristol – they found her through the Salvation Army and Dr Randall got her into some sort of drug rehabilitation scheme. Mrs Randall hasn’t said anything – naturally – but I think they’re afraid she’s back on drugs again.’

‘Oh dear. She certainly looks terrible.’

‘Apparently she’s been hanging around with a really unsavoury young man, some sort of goth, or whatever they’re called, almost certainly on drugs and possibly a dealer. They’ve tried talking to her, but they’re terrified that if they come down too hard on her she’ll run away again.’

‘What about the sister?’

‘Daisy? The absolute opposite – works hard at school, gold medal for the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme, wants to be a doctor like her father.’

‘And what does she think about Sophie? Has she tried to help?’

‘She tried, but Sophie just laughs at her and calls her a stupid little loser. Daisy used to be very fond of her sister but now, so Delia says, she’s just embarrassed, especially at school – well, Sophie’s a very visible presence around the town and you know how unkind some schoolchildren can be.’

‘She looks so unhappy – Sophie that is – when she comes in the shop. Jean says she’s looking for something to steal, and perhaps she is, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her. And for her parents too, of course.’

‘It doesn’t seem fair. They’ve given both those girls the same love and attention, but then one turns out like that – there’s no accounting for it.’

‘Goodness,’ I said, ‘it makes you realise just how lucky we’ve been.’

‘Count your blessings, that’s what Mother is always saying when I complain. Mind you, the only things Mother counts are other people’s defects.’

Chapter Three

Why is it that when a day starts badly it always gets worse? I’d overslept and when I got down to the kitchen I found that the animals had upset their bowl of water and Foss (a careless eater) had scattered half his food in the resultant mess. Tris, impatient for his breakfast, was pushing his food bowl around (making things worse) and Foss was weaving round my ankles while I tried to clear up, complaining about the delay in that particularly plangent Siamese wail. Unfortunately I wasn’t wary enough and he managed to nip my ankle (to make his point clear), so I had to spend precious time looking for something to stop the bleeding.

After that it was all downhill. Burnt toast, spilt coffee, laddered tights, mislaid car keys and, finally, my usual parking place unavailable because they were digging up the road. And, of course, when I did eventually arrive at the shop – late, out of breath and cross – I found Jean and Wendy ostentatiously busy at the front of the shop, Norma guarding the till and Desmond, who doesn’t usually come in in the morning, prowling around with his camera. I muttered some sort of general apology, which he chose to ignore, and went into the back room to take my coat off.

I was then confronted by the task I’d abandoned the previous day – a large black dustbin bag, half emptied on the floor. It may be the association of black bag and rubbish that causes some people to dump what is palpably rubbish on our doorstep as a so-called contribution. This lot was particularly useless: broken electrical equipment, chipped china and dog-eared books and magazines, together with a few crumpled not-too-clean garments. I was just nerving myself to deal with this unsavoury task when Desmond came in.

He looked with distaste at the pile on the floor and said coldly, ‘If you could kindly clear a little space so that we can get through.’

‘I was just going—’ I began, but he moved past me and began taking photographs of the locks on the window and the back door. Then he opened the door and photographed the guttering and the paving of the yard and the double doors that led out into the alley beyond. As he turned to come back in I hastily put on some rubber gloves and began to sort out the unpleasing objects before me. Fortunately he continued on into the shop and I was able to bundle everything back into the dustbin bag, take it outside and throw it into one of the large bins that stood in the yard.

When I came back, feeling slightly guilty, Jean was there filling the kettle. I told her what I’d done and she said, ‘Best place for it. I wish people would stop treating us as a dumping ground for their junk.’

‘Why on earth is he photographing all those locks and things?’ I asked.

‘Oh, something to do with the maintenance of the premises – I haven’t the faintest idea what that is all about.’ She switched off the kettle. ‘Do you want a coffee? I’m just making one for his lordship.’

‘No thanks,’ I said regretfully. ‘I’ve only just got here. I’d better go and help Wendy.’

I’d really got into the way of going into the shop and felt almost sorry that Monica would be coming back quite soon.

‘I thought I might volunteer to help on a regular basis,’ I said to Rosemary. ‘I’m quite enjoying it.’

‘No way,’ Rosemary said vehemently. ‘Think of having to put up with Norma and horrible Desmond for ever more! Anyway, it’s been a bit of a tie, you must admit – we haven’t had a day out for ages.’

Michael was equally emphatic. ‘You’d hate it after a bit, you know you would. Day after day. Anyway, you’ve got quite enough on already – Brunswick Lodge and the Hospital Friends and all the other stuff.’

I knew they were right, but still, I was quite pleased to get a phone call from Monica saying that she wouldn’t be back for several weeks more.