Paula Brackston's Blog, page 4

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Twelve

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  To Rose’s surprise, when Ryan returned home from work that Wednesday evening he was actually whistling. He even gave Baby his sunglasses to play with for a moment, as he slipped his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair.

  ‘There you go, mate,’ he said, ‘proper Pilots those are, none of your cheap rubbish. Mind you don’t bend them, or it’ll come out of your pocket money.’

  ‘They’re not really suitable…’ said Rose.

  ‘Don’t fuss, woman. He knows quality when he sees it. He’s a chip off the old block.’

  ‘You sound as if you’re feeling better,’ Rose put a mug of tea in front of Ryan. ‘Did you have a good day at work?’

  ‘I did indeed. Closed a blinder of a sale on a crap flat in Barnchester. Thought we’d be stuck with the sodding thing forever. And yeah, I do feel better. At last. Guts seem to have stopped giving me gip.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good.’ Rose hovered next to Baby, keeping a keen eye on the sunglasses. 

  ‘In fact,’ Ryan swigged at his tea, ‘I’m feeling so much better I’m going to work late tomorrow night. Catch up on some stuff.’

  Rose stiffened a little, her grip on Baby’s highchair tightening.

  ‘Tomorrow? That’s Thursday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Generally is after Wednesday. Don’t wait up.’ He threw her a glance, then paused, looking harder. ‘You had your hair done?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yesterday.’

  ‘You didn’t say you were going into town. How much did that set me back?’

  ‘Nothing. A friend did it for me.’

  He gave a short laugh.

  ‘Didn’t know you had any friends. Hey! Watch the lenses, you little monster.’ He snatched the sunglasses from Baby’s over-enthusiastic grasp.  Baby responded by letting out an uncharacteristic wail of protest. Rose quickly calmed him by giving him her house keys to play with.

  ‘I’ll cook something nice for your tea, seeing as you’re feeling better,’ she said. ‘How about spaghetti Bolognese? With lots of herbs?’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ he stood up, taking off his tie. ‘I’m off to watch the footie. Give me a shout when grub’s ready,’ he said, heading for the lounge. 

  Rose heard the tele click on. She set about fetching the ingredients she needed – onions, mince, green pepper, tinned tomatoes, and herbs. Lots of herbs.

  It was well past midnight when Ryan’s stomach finally settled enough to allow him to drop into an exhausted sleep. He had eaten well. Enjoyed his food. He had even said as much to Rose. But then, an hour or so later, the cramps and nausea had started again. It seemed he still hadn’t completely shaken off his tummy bug. Rose had fetched glasses of water and Pepto Bismol and hot-water bottles, while Ryan had spent the evening dashing to the bathroom, then staggering back to the bed. 

  Once both he and Baby were at last sleeping deeply and peacefully Rose went back downstairs. Quietly she took the car keys from Ryan’s jacket pocket, then made her way into the garage. She stood for a moment, looking at the sleek, flashy car in front of her. Then she picked up the Haines manual and began searching purposefully through it.

  Fliss waited until Rhian and Sam had gone back upstairs after supper before picking up the phone and settling herself on the window seat in the sitting room. It was still light, and the village looked at its chocolate box best in the low summer sun. She dialled Daniel’s home number, and was a little surprised to find him in.

  ‘Hi, Babe. How’s it going down there in darkest Dorset?’

  ‘Fine. Well, sort of,’ she said.

  ‘Oh? Something nasty in the woodshed?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘Hmm, tell me more.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, trying a firm, level tone, ‘but only if you don’t just make a joke of the whole thing.’

  ‘Now, does that sound like me?’

  ‘I mean it, Dan. This is serious.’

  ‘OK. You’ve got my attention.’

  Fliss took a deep breath.

  ‘You remember I told you I had my suspicions about Withy Hill, about what they were up to?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I do have a marginally more long-term memory than a goldfish. They want to build a laboratory of some sort. You did mention it, once or twice.’

  Fliss chose to ignore his sarcasm, and resisted rising to the bait.

  ‘Well I’ve found out more. I’ve been talking to Neville, and he says…’

  ‘Neville?’

  ‘Yes, Neville Meatcher, he works in the planning department of Barnchester Council. He says the plans have already been approved. We may even be too late to stop it. When we discussed it last night…’

  ‘Last night? Work late at the Council down there, do they?’

  ‘What? No, he came round here.’

  ‘Oh, I see, house calls. Better still.’ Suddenly Daniel’s tone was sharper.

  ‘This was not something he wanted to discuss in the office. Besides, he lives in the village, he didn’t even need to get his bicycle out – it was easy for him to pop round.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear you’re getting to know the neighbours at last.’

  ‘Can I get to the point, or are you going to interrupt me every two seconds?’ It was Fliss’s turn to be sharp. Daniel didn’t respond, so she pressed on. ‘The thing is, it’s really unusual for an application to go through that quickly. And it bypassed the normal channels. Someone’s been bought.’

  ‘You can’t know that. Why would anyone go to so much trouble to get a chicken feed lab built?’

  ‘It’s not for chicken feed.’ Fliss paused, then said, ‘I decided to have a look around at the farm. The boss is away at the moment. Anyway, I found this room, a locked room. They’ve already been doing experiments and stuff in there, but keeping it secret. I found something. Something…horrible, Dan. They’ve been messing about with rats – I found one with five legs.’

  ‘Yeuch!’

  ‘That’s exactly what Neville said when I showed it to him.’

  ‘You stole this freak and took it home?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. We met in the woods. At night. It seemed more sensible.’

  ‘Meeting a strange man in a remote place after dark with a half-inched deformed rat…yeah, Babe, really sensible.’

  ‘Look, never mind about that. The point is, we’ve got to do something. They can’t be allowed to build the laboratory and do God knows what up there.’

  ‘I’m sure your friend Nigel…’

  ‘Neville.’

  ‘…whatever, I’m sure he has a chum on the local rag. The provincial press must be starved of decent stories, I’m sure they’d run with this one. It clearly has legs.’

  ‘Daniel! This is not funny.’

  ‘Well I don’t know what else you expect me to suggest. Doesn’t Neville have any bright ideas? You could pop round for a cup of sugar – muscovado, of course – and pick his brains. Assuming he has any left, given where he works.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I had hoped you’d support me in this; that you’d actually pull your overpaid, over qualified, finger out and be of some help. But, oh no, you have to come over all adolescent and jealous…’

  ‘Jealous! Of Neville the neighbourhood nerd? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Listen to yourself! Why can’t you behave like a grown up for a change? Sometimes you’re more of a teenager than Rhian is,’ she told him.

  ‘Well excuse me for not being mature enough for your liking all of a sudden. Your new best friend isn’t a few years older than us, by any chance?’ Daniel wanted to know.

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with anything? I can’t believe you are more concerned about me talking to someone who happens to live in the village than…’

  ‘Talking to, meeting in woods, entertaining in your snug little home…’

  Fliss finally lost her temper.

 ‘Oh fine. Forget it, Daniel. Just forget the whole thing. You’re obviously not interested. Sorry I even bothered to ask. I’ll deal with the situation on my own.’

  ‘But you’re not on your own, are you – you’ve got Neville. Well, I’d hate to get in the way of burgeoning rural relations. Maybe I’ll give the sticks a miss this weekend. Leave you to it.’

  ‘Fine. You do that. Goodbye, Daniel,’ Fliss clicked off the phone and sat seething, her hands shaking more than a little. She bit her lip to stop infuriating tears from emerging. A noise behind her made her jump. She turned to see Rhian standing in the doorway, arms folded, mouth set in that determined line.

  ‘Ah,’ said Fliss, ‘I take it you heard…’

  Rhian didn’t move an inch.

  ‘I want to know everything. Right now. All the details. Particularly about the rat.’ She yelled over her shoulder, ‘Sam! Get down here! You’re going to want to hear this.’

  It took Fliss some time to tell all she knew to Rhian and Sam. Both girls were furious, for their own reasons. Sam was scandalised to think that such revolting activities had been going on right under her nose. Clearly her information sources were fallible after all. Rhian was shocked and mortified on behalf of the rats and chickens, and full of pique and indignation that her mother had tried to keep the whole business a secret from her. 

  ‘We didn’t want to worry you,’ Fliss tried to explain, ‘especially when we weren’t sure what was going on.’

  ‘Huh, it’s typical of Daniel,’ said Rhian. ‘He pretends to treat me like an adult, but when it comes down to it he still thinks I’m a child.’

  ‘No, actually, Daniel didn’t know about the rat and the planning until just now. You heard me telling him.’

  ‘So who is ‘we’?’

  ‘Neville and me. You know he came to see me last night.’

  Sam shook her head solemnly.

  ‘He’s in the enemy camp, Mrs Horton. You really shouldn’t be fraternising with him.’

  ‘He’s not in any camp. Nor am I. And I wouldn’t know how to fraternise. Anyway, it was your idea I speak to him in the first place.’

  ‘To gain information,’ Sam reminded her,  ‘there are clearly delineated boundaries in a case like this. It is important to observe them. Few people can be trusted with such sensitive evidence.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I had to show Neville the rat to convince him there was something going on. Otherwise he would never have checked up on the planning application. We’ve only just met, for heaven’s sake, why would he take my word for anything? Besides, he’s OK. He doesn’t approve of what’s going on any more than you do.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Rhian was unconvinced. ‘So what’s he going to do about it, then?’

   Fliss tried to sound positive, hoping to give the impression that everything was being dealt with.

  ‘We’re giving it some more thought – we need to come up with a sensible plan of action. No point rushing and making a mess of things.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rhian, ‘can’t imagine that anorak having a crap without putting it in his diary first.’

  ‘Rhian! You don’t even know the man. Just for once could you give someone the benefit of the doubt? Would it kill you?’

  ‘Well what’s he waiting for? A real man would be doing something, not just thinking about it.’

  ‘Rhian’s right,’ said Sam, ‘this is clearly a situation demanding direct action.’

  ‘Now hold on,’ Fliss stood up, the better to make her point, ‘let’s be absolutely clear about this. You are to do nothing, do you hear me? Nothing. This is important, and there are clearly some devious and single-minded people involved. I’m trusting you two to behave like adults here; I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘Only because you had no choice,’ Rhian pointed out.

  ‘That’s as may be, but you have to give me your word on this. Both of you. Your word that you won’t go charging off on your own doing something harebrained.’

  ‘Harebrained!’ Now Rhian stood up. ‘Oh yes, you’re really treating us like adults, I can see that.’

  ‘You know what I mean. No graffiti on the chicken sheds. No chaining yourselves to the yard gate. In fact, no going anywhere near Withy Hill Farm. Do I make myself clear?’

   The girls responded with a wilful silence.

  ‘I promise I will tell you as soon as there is something for you to do. Some way you can help. In the meantime you keep what I have told you to yourselves. Sam, that means not telling your parents for now, I’m afraid. Neville and I are going to come up with something. Trust me, this is not something we are going to sit back and let happen. OK?’

   Still there was no response.

  ‘OK?!’ Fliss tried again.

   There was another pause, and the girls looked at one another for a moment. Sam gave a nod, and Rhian turned back to her mother.

  ‘OK. You’ve got a week. If you haven’t come up with something by then, we will. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Fliss agreed, before slumping onto the sofa as the girls went back upstairs.  She sat for a moment in the increasing gloom, exhausted by the hoop jumping she had to perform to communicate with Rhian, and flattened by her telephone conversation with Daniel. After a little more thought she picked up the phone again. She carried it out to the hall and searched through the local phone book, then dialled. The ringing tone sang away merrily for what seemed an unnecessarily long time, then Neville answered.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Fliss.’

  ‘Ah, afraid I haven’t come up with a master plan yet,’ Neville told her.

  ‘No, don’t panic, nor have I,’ said Fliss. She took a steadying breath. ‘Actually I was calling to ask if your offer of dinner of Saturday night was still open? It seems I won’t be busy, after all.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. I’m glad you can make it.’ Neville sounded quite chipper all of a sudden. ‘I did warn you my sister and her husband will be there too, didn’t I? They’re determined to go to the Farmer’s Lodge on the Barnchester road. Not exactly a menu to die for.’

  ‘As long as it’s not a menu to die of.’

  ‘Fortunately they keep a surprisingly good cellar. Helps wash the scampi down. And it’s close. We could walk, if you like.’

  ‘Great. That’ll give us a chance to discuss you-know-what. Rhian knows everything, so we’re on borrowed time.’

  ‘I’ll call for you at seven on Saturday then,’ said Neville.

  After she had rung off Fliss sat for a while on the bottom stair, telephone in hand, and laughed when she realised she was worrying about what she was going to wear.

  Neville puffed as he pedalled, finding the journey home longer than usual. He had been forced to stay late at the office, yet again, due to an apparently urgent pile of trivia arriving on his desk at five-thirty.  Sharon had assured him it all had to be done then and there – orders from above, it seemed. This was the third day running Neville had had to work well beyond his normal hours, and he was beginning to think Mr Forbes was deliberately filling his time. Could he have got wind of Neville’s investigations into Withy Hill? It was possible. His increased workload had certainly had the effect of hampering his attempts of thinking up some way of exposing Withy Hill. Some way that did not involve losing his job, preferably.  But time was running out. Since Fliss’s revelation of the night before that Rhian now knew about the rat, he was keenly aware they would have to come up with something soon. But what? There was no point going to the press without some sort of proof. At best they would be laughed at, and at worst his boss could dismiss him and sue for slander. It was obvious they needed evidence, something incontrovertible. However, the idea of what might be involved in getting such evidence brought Neville out in a cold sweat.  

  He kept his bike well into the side of the road, hearing a fast car approaching from behind. He still bore the scars of his encounter of a few weeks ago with the Withy Hill lorry, and was somewhat wary of the combination of narrow roads and speeding traffic.  He wobbled slightly as the car flashed past, registering only as it disappeared that it was somehow familiar. He paused, foot on the floor, catching his breath, trying to focus his mind on a vague memory. Then it came to him where he had seen the blue Subaru before.

 ‘Claude sodding Lambert! Now where’s he going?’ he wondered aloud. He heard the engine noise change as it rounded the bend. Instead of gearing down and revving up to climb the hill towards the village it slowed almost to a halt. Neville pedalled on and made the corner just in time to catch sight of the car turning left up a private drive. There was a For Sale sign on the gatepost, above a smaller one bearing the name ‘The Larches.’ On impulse, Neville followed, taking care not to get close enough to be spotted. 

  The short drive led to a secluded and apparently empty house. Neville parked among the branches of a late-flowering rhododendron and watched. The car stopped to one side of the house and the driver got out. Neville was still some distance away, but even so he could clearly see that this was not Claude Lambert. He couldn’t make out the passenger, who was still sitting in the car. Curious, Neville left his bike hidden in the bush and crept forward until he reached the remnant of an old holly hedge. He hunkered down behind it, squinting out from the dense cover of the glossy leaves. Now he recognised the driver as a man from the village – Ryan Behr. Neville had had the dubious pleasure of dealing with the young estate agent several years ago when he had first rented his flat above the Post Office.  Ryan was plainly furious about something, his voice raised sufficiently for every word to easily carry as far as Neville.

  ‘Stupid, bastard, sodding thing!’ he yelled, banging his fist on the roof of the car. ‘What the fuck’s wrong with it now!’ He tore off his jacket, threw it onto the driver’s seat, then bent down to try and peer underneath the vehicle.

  The passenger door opened. Neville craned his neck to try and identify the person who was climbing out. It definitely wasn’t Claude. Nor, if memory served, was it Ryan’s rather plump, mousy wife, as far as Neville could see. The young woman was tall, slender, and expensively dressed. She had glossy blonde hair, held back off her face by a pair of sunglasses perched carefully on the top of her head, and a sharp, strident voice.

  ‘There’s no point losing your temper,’ she told Ryan. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so upset anyway, I couldn’t hear anything.’

  ‘Then you must be sodding deaf,’ Ryan shouted back from under the car.

  ‘Oh, charming. Look, I didn’t come all the way out here just so you could spend the whole time searching for a silly rattling noise in your precious car.’

  ‘A clunk, not a rattle. It was a clunk. And it was coming from somewhere under here. It’s just one thing after a bloody ‘nother, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Can’t you look for it later? I want to go inside. Where are the keys?’

  ‘In my jacket. You go on, I’ll be up in a minute.’

  ‘Promises, promises.’

  Neville watched as the woman checked through Ryan’s pockets. He had no interest in the car or the couple now he knew Claude was not there, but he was sure he’d be seen if he tried to leave. What would they think if they found him lurking in the bushes apparently spying on them? He would have to wait a few more minutes, just until they’d gone into the house.

  ‘I can’t find them,’ the woman spoke to Ryan’s back as he grovelled beside the car shining a torch on its underbelly. ‘Are you sure you brought them?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course I did.’ Ryan straightened up with some obvious difficulty. ‘Ow! Sod it!’ he grimaced and leant heavily on the car.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter now?’

  ‘My stomach. Ow!’

  ‘Again?’ the woman’s voice showed more than a hint of impatience. ‘I thought you said you were better. You said you’d finally shaken off that bug.’

  ‘I though I had, but…ahh…it’s more than sodding obvious I haven’t, isn’t it? Where are those keys? I need the bog.’ He shook his jacket, then dived into the car and searched inside.

  ‘I told you, they’re not there. You must have left them in the office.’

  ‘Bastard sodding keys!’

  ‘Wonderful evening this is turning out to be,’ complained the woman.

  Ryan emerged from the car, bent double, clutching at his stomach and groaning loudly. 

  ‘I gotta get to the bog!’

  ‘Well I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. You’re the one who forgot the keys.’

  ‘Fuck!’ shouted Ryan, before sprinting for the shrubbery.

  Neville gasped as he realised Ryan was heading straight for him. He forced himself to burrow deeper into the holly bush. A hundred prickles stabbed at his hands and face. It took a considerable amount of willpower for him not to cry out. He froze, squashed into the damp earth, spikes pinning him down. 

  Ryan blundered into the undergrowth, tugging at his belt. Not more than a few yards from Neville’s hiding place he dropped his trousers. There was a tortured moan, then the unmistakeable sounds of violent, explosive, and abundant diarrhoea.

  Neville’s jaw dropped in horror. He quickly shut it again as an acrid and repulsive stench reached his nostrils. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was somewhere, anywhere, else. The foul smell grew stronger. Ryan’s moans continued for what seemed like days, accompanied by graphic sound effects. Neville clung to a holly bush root in an effort to stop himself bolting in search of clean air. Vomiting could only be moments away. For both Ryan and himself.

  Then, mercifully, the noises stopped. With a deep sigh, Ryan hitched up his trousers and staggered back out to his car.

  Neville pressed the back of his hand hard against his mouth and dared to open his eyes. Ryan was already behind the wheel of his car, the woman hurrying to the passenger’s seat complaining all the while.  With much slamming of doors and revving of the engine the hapless couple sped away.

  The moment they were out of sight Neville shot from his cover like a driven pheasant. He put as much distance as he could, as quickly as he could, between himself and the revolting scene of Ryan’s evacuation. Gulping fresh air he retrieved his bicycle, and peddled, not a little unsteadily, in the direction of home.

   The full midnight moon shone with a silver brilliance over the sylvan scene. Nettlecombe Hatchet slept. Beneath the shimmering lunar beams the village lay peaceful and quiet, a preternatural stillness stopping time. The landscape slumbered in the ageless night under softly strobing starlight, while below its turfy surface troglodyte creatures stretched and stirred and poked twitching snouts out into the warm air.  Hedgehogs made prickly progress across the village green in search of snacks. Dozing ducks sat in impossible paper-clip shapes beside the pond. The water, dark and smooth as an oil slick, held its secrets of coins and wishes and the dunking of witches. In the bins behind the shop a twenty-first century fox foraged for his fix of fast food past its sell-by date. In gardens and above doorways and up trellises and over arbours jasmine and honeysuckle released their heady scents to steal into the senses and intoxicate with ideas of sweetness and romance. Moved by the magic of the glimmering moonshine, a nightingale cast its own irresistible spell, all who heard it at once enchanted and beguiled.

  At three Brook Terrace Fliss slept naked under the white cotton sheet, her red hair a Pre-Raphaelite dream on the pillow. The open window let the birdsong in to mingle with the curling smoke of the incense cone by her bed into a fragrant lullaby. In the next room Rhian snoozed, still wearing her headphones, serenaded by more modern sounds.

  In Honeysuckle Cottage Ryan snored and moaned in a sleep achieved only with large doses of kaolin and morphine. Rose slept happily on the single bed in Baby’s room; her own foetal posture echoing that of her child’s.

  Upstairs in The Soldier’s Arms Pam lay large on her back in her inappropriately lacy bed, open-mouthed and rasping, her diminutive spouse beside her a mere bump under the tented sheets.

  In the Old Vicarage a restless Cynthia wandered the room in her candlewick housecoat, cooling herself with a Spanish fan, trailing a favourite shawl, like a portly Miss Haversham, Hamlet shuffling in her wake.

  In her tiny bed in her tiny flat only a few feet and a flimsy wall from the sherbet dips, Miss Siddons fidgeted and itched, and her dog curled himself into a brown and white croissant and farted at ten minute intervals.

  Upstairs in his flat, Neville wrestled with dreams that began with a solitary, questioning mouse, and ended in a phantasmagoria of mutant creatures, their imploring eyes allowing him no escape. Driven from his bed by such nightmarish scenes he roamed his rooms in his boxers, finally coming to rest in a cool leather chair in the sitting room.  He gazed out of the window at the softened shapes of the trees and their perfect moon shadows, listening to the rare birdsong, breathing in the pure, uncontaminated night air, and, as Cilla landed lightly on his lap, he fell at last into a weary, mercifully dreamless, sleep.

To be continued…

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Historical Nuggets – Life of PA Part Six

Click the image and scroll to the bottom of the page to sign up to our newsletter!Stained Glass and Historical Nuggets

In last month’s newsletter, ‘Skyla Investigates: Book-Inspired Historical Nuggets’, I delved into the process of stained glass production in the Victorian era. It is a fascinating topic as there are so many elements to produce something so intricate. Who would’ve thought that sand, potash and lime could create such a thing? The concoction would then be mixed with various metallic oxides to create the wide range of colours. To then separate colours, shapes and pictures, a lead rim would be fitted where needed. As health and safety measures were not a thing, I wonder if anyone went insane from inhaling the lead?

Usually in my Historical Nuggets I am comparing and contrasting two different things. This time I provided an example of a fiction and a non-fiction book that is focused around Victorian Era stained glass production. The idea behind my Historical Nuggets is to learn about something that doesn’t come up in day-to-day life. I hope that our lovely readers learn something new or that I grow on what they already know. When writing newsletters, I feel it’s important to engage with your audience and give them questions to think about as they go about their day. I like to be personable and show that just because I am hiding behind a screen and am over the pond. That we value our lovely peeps and are in fact human too!

Much to Mum’s delight, I do tend to use books for a lot of my research. It is vital to use reliable sourcing when the information may be implemented into a novel. If we do not have a book containing the information I need, I tend to use University websites. This is because they usually have actual archives and records of historical events.

A snapshot of me during my researchUpcoming Research

One upcoming topic I will be looking into is the history of the Wye Way building in Hereford when it was a hospital. It’s research for Hecate Part 2 (which is very much underway as we speak)! I will nab this topic in my next Historical Nuggets newsletter segment. The best way of learning for me is by the doing. I have learnt so many tips and tricks for fully utilizing the research I do and the tools around me. Whenever I research a topic, it is used for social media posts, newsletter and is beneficial for Mum. I am all for taking some weight off her shoulders by deep diving into random topics for her. It never ceases to amaze me that not only can I do this, but I can have fun whilst doing so. Being able to be passionate about your work is an exciting feeling.

Wye Way in its current stateYouTube and Waffling

Another platform I will be researching for is YouTube! The type of content I will be making is very different as it’s in a video format when I am used to hiding behind words on a screen. So all you lovely peeps will get the pleasure of either hearing me or seeing my face. We have been collating ideas to keep a varied range of content to keep things interesting. Some will include Mum and I together, others just me. One of the other main parts of the channel will of course be the animals! They are always the star of the show and are incredibly cheap labour (bribe with cheese). I shan’t go into specifics about what we will be doing because who doesn’t love a surprise? As always, please bear with me as I learn the ins and outs of YouTubing and gaining confidence with showing my face.

I look forward to the day I can do everything with my eyes closed and get into a proper routine. I find making lists (colour coded of course) and planning ahead is the only way to smoothly produce content and get work done. Discovering what time of day you are most productive is also important. Much to the dismay of anyone I live with, I am most productive in the late afternoon and evenings. I have never and will never be a morning person! I will happily run a hoover around the house at midnight if no one else is around. Anyway, enough of my waffling, I am off to wrap birthday presents for the various men in my life!

Click the snoot to go to our YouTube Channel!

The post Historical Nuggets – Life of PA Part Six appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Eleven

  As Rose opened the back door of Honeysuckle Cottage she was careful to make as little noise as possible.  Baby would be sound asleep upstairs; his routine was sufficiently fixed for her to be sure of that. Ryan had decided he was well enough to get out of bed, however, and would most likely be watching TV. Rose didn’t want to have to explain the mud on her shoes. Quickly and quietly she slipped them off and took them to the sink. She had just started running the tap to rinse off the soles when Ryan’s voice behind her made her jump.

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘I was as quick as I could be. Did Baby wake up?’

  ‘Course not. He’s not the one with diar-bloody-rhea, is he? You said you’d only be twenty minutes.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She continued to clean her shoes, as it was too late to pretend she was doing anything else.

  Ryan stepped forwards and peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Where’s all that mud come from? You said you were just popping round to check on old Sally Siddons. Looks more like you’ve been on a cross-country run,’ he gave a derisive snort, ‘which is pretty sodding unlikely when you think about it.’

  Rose swilled away the mud as quickly as she could.

  ‘I took the dog out for her. Sally’s shingles is no better, you know. She’s not up to exercising him. He needed to go out.’

  ‘You two must have been a sight – my missus and the fattest Jack Russell in the country. Where d’you take him to get in that state, anyway?’

  ‘It’s quite sticky by the pond. The ducks have been churning it up after the storm, I suppose.’  Rose dried the shoes off with kitchen towel and put them by the back door. She turned to Ryan, doing her best to muster a bright and casual smile.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ 

  ‘Oh, nice of you to ask – finally. All very well running off to pander to silly old women with a few spots, but what about your husband? Eh? How about looking after someone who’s really ill? I could manage a bacon sarnie.’

  ‘Oh, good, you’re feeling a little better then?’

  ‘Now, I am, at this moment. Give the thing an hour and who sodding knows.’

  ‘Would you like me to make you an appointment to see the doctor? I could ring the surgery in the morning.’ Rose set about grilling bacon.

  ‘No way. I don’t want any overpaid quack prodding and poking me. No thank you. You know I never go to the doctor’s.’ He left the kitchen, heading back to the TV. ‘Just bring me my sandwich when it’s ready. If it’s not too much trouble.’

  Rose jabbed at the bacon as she turned it. It had been a long day. She had trekked into Barnchester on the bus with Baby in the morning to go to the bank, and the crowds and traffic and noise had worn her out. But it was something that had had to be done. She had opened an account with Baby’s prize money cheque on their way home from London, but she never had any intention of leaving the money there. The girl behind the glass screen had looked quite shocked when Rose told her (she)? how much she wanted to take out. She had asked her three times if she really wanted to withdraw all the money. She looked to Rose like the sort of girl who would go to Dixie’s on a Friday night. That was the trouble with such a small town. Everyone knew everyone and spoke to everyone, and that was where Ryan had his accounts(,; and)? it just seemed all too easy for him to find out about the winnings. Besides which Rose didn’t trust banks. When her grandmother had left her Honeysuckle Cottage the local bank manager had tried to persuade her to sell and invest the money. He had even given her name to the local estate agent. Which was how Ryan had come to call. Which was how they met. Which led to them getting married. No, the money was safer in the woods. She had wrapped it well in Clingfilm and put it in a sturdy Tupperware box, so it would be alright where it was. Until later. Until she decided what to do with it.

  It had been an unusually busy Tuesday morning in Neville’s office, so that it was almost midday by the time he had a chance to log on to the Internet. He punched in Withy Hill Farm and waited. A cheery website appeared, red and white logo to the fore, photographs of smiling workers, happy little chickens all over the place. The very picture of normality. Not a rat in sight, five-legged or otherwise. He slurped at his cold coffee and shuddered. He had been fighting a headache since breakfast, and it wasn’t helping his tiresome day. The fact that he had barely slept the night before added to his bad mood. He clicked on the link to the farm’s parent company. Again, no mutant rodents, no professors with busy hair and foreign accents and glassy eyes. True, there was mention of biotechnology and even genetic modification, but all the information was so vague as to be worthless. 

  He thought for a moment, then punched in the name Claude Lambert. The scrawny chef stared out of the screen at him. There followed details of his restaurant, his books, and his culinary achievements to date. There was also a piece on his new venture with Withy Hill Farm, singing the praises of their conscientiously farmed produce. 

  ‘Hmm, back to square one,’ Neville said to himself.  He checked his desk for the Withy Hill planning application. It wasn’t there. He looked in his drawers, his in-tray, his miscellaneous heap under the telephone, and the little-used filing cabinet by the window. Nothing.  He buzzed his irksome underling, who sauntered through the door some minutes later.

  ‘Philips, good of you to find the time. Have you, perchance, got the Withy Hill application?’ Neville asked.

  ‘Me? No, I gave it to you,’ said Philips.

  ‘Yes, I know that, but it’s not here now. Someone must have taken it.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Well is that it? Have you nothing more constructive to say on the matter?’

  ‘Not my problem if you can’t keep track of stuff. You were supposed to look at it. You were supposed to attach your comments and pass it up. You…’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, I know all that. The fact is I hadn’t finished dealing with it and now it’s missing.’ Neville pointedly rifled through the pile of folders on his desk. ‘See? Not here. Gone. Vanished. Vamoosed.’ 

  ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do about it,’ said Philips.

  ‘I never expect anything from you, Philips, but I do still harbour this mad notion that as you work here you must serve some useful purpose. One day I’ll find out what it is. In the meantime, ask Sharon to step in here for a moment, would you? Do you think you could manage that?’

  Philips scowled and left, and was quickly replaced by Sharon.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Mr Meatcher?’ asked the department secretary. If ever there was a girl born to be shared among half a dozen men, it was Sharon. Out in the real world she would pass unnoticed in a crowd of even moderately attractive people, such was the forgettable quality of her appearance, and her sharp, thin voice would deter all but the most drunk or desperate. At work, however, she was regularly the cause of macho posturing and squabbling. Here every man in the office wanted to claim her as his own. The fact that none of them could justify having a secretary of their own only made them more determined to monopolise her, so that her time was constantly taken up with trivial and pointless tasks. 

  ‘Sharon,’ Neville did his best to muster a smile, ‘do you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of the Withy Hill application?’

  ‘The chicken farm, d’you mean? Yes, Mr Forbes phoned down for it yesterday. I took it up to him myself. Do you know, he’s got air conditioning in his office? Imagine. Don’t suppose we’ll ever get it down here, though. Have to make do with dangling out the window to get some air. It’d be all the same to him if one of us fell out one day.’

  ‘Quite. Did he say why he wanted it?’

  ‘Air conditioning?’

  ‘The Withy Hill file.’

  ‘Oh no, he just said it needed rubber stamping and he’d get it done and out the way.’

  ‘You mean he passed it? Without waiting for me to look at it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose he must have, yes.’

  After Sharon had left Neville sat for a moment, gazing blankly at the gaunt face of Claude Lambert on his monitor, pondering. He opened his top drawer and took out the copy of his Daryole recipe. With a sigh he screwed it up, tossed it into his waste paper basket, deleted Claude, picked up the phone, and dialled the number Fliss had given him. 

  ‘It’s me, Neville,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been doing some digging on Withy Hill.’

  ‘What have you found?’ asked Fliss.

  ‘Absolutely bugger all.’

  ‘Oh. That’s useful,’ she sounded disappointed. ‘I have to say I’m not surprised, though. They’re hardly going to shout about what they’re up to from the virtual rooftops, are they?’

  ‘No. But there is something…odd.’

  ‘What?’

  Neville lowered his voice to a husky whisper.

  ‘You could be right about the rubber stamping.’

  ‘What? Hello? I can’t hear you. Neville?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ he reverted to speaking normally. ‘I can’t talk to you about it properly now.’

  ‘OK, come round to my house after work. Oh no, wait, it’s Tuesday isn’t it? I’m busy tonight. How about tomorrow?  Six-ish?’

  ‘Right. See you then.’ Neville wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to say to Fliss when he saw her, but he had been sufficiently disturbed by the rat to know something had to be done. And the fact that the planning application had been rushed through was worrying. Very worrying.  He was stirred from his thoughts by the ringing of his telephone. It was Sandra.

  ‘How are you feeling, Neville?’ she asked, all sisterly concern. ‘I thought you might be a bit down after Saturday. I wanted to call you before, but Brian said not to fuss.’

  Neville rubbed his eyes wearily. 

  ‘I’m fine, Sandra, really.’

  ‘Such a shame the day was a disaster, after all your hard work. And you never even got to put your pudding in the competition, did you? We liked it. Well, I did, you know how children are about food.’

  ‘I seem to remember Brian saying it reminded him of school dinners.’

  ‘Oh you don’t want to listen to Brian, I never do. What a strange man that chef of yours was. Did you ever find out what made him run off like that?’

  ‘No. In fact, no-one has been able to speak to him since.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s creative types for you, I suppose.’

  ‘Sandra, much as I’d like to sit here chatting…’

  ‘Yes, you’re busy, of course you are. I’ll get to the point. We were wondering if you’d like to bring your friend round for dinner?’

  ‘Friend?’ 

  ‘Yes, whichever one you like. We thought they were all lovely.’

  ‘Who all?’ asked Neville.

  ‘Lucy and Cynthia and Fliss, silly, who did you think I meant?’ She paused, then added, ‘Or are there others too?’

  ‘Others? No, no, no. Sandra, you’ve got it all wrong.’

  ‘Oh? I did wonder. I mean, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t have three girlfriends – how you live your life is up to you. But I said to Brian “I bet there’s one he’s especially keen on.” I’m right aren’t I? A sister knows these things.’

  Neville frowned into the telephone, at a loss as to where to begin to unravel the tangled web that was being woven about him. He knew his sister well enough to realise that once she had an idea in her head he would have trouble ridding her of it.

  ‘Look, it’s very sweet of you, but I think it might be a bit much so early in our…friendship. I mean, meeting my family, the twins, your house, you know…’

  ‘Ahh, you could be right. Might be too much for her,’ Sandra thought for a moment, then had an idea, ‘I know! Let’s meet at the Farmer’s Lodge instead. That would be much better – don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Neutral ground. And the food’s so lovely, any girl would be impressed.’

  Neville winced at the very idea of the microwaved, mass-produced fodder served at such a place.

  Sandra was becoming more and more enthusiastic about the idea.

  ‘It’s not far from you – just a short walk up onto the A367. Imagine, strolling hand in hand on a beautiful summer’s evening, then a lovely meal…’

  ‘Sandra, have you been lurking in the romantic novel section of the library again?’

  ‘…Brian’s treat, of course, seeing as we invited you.’

  The baser, more Scrooge-like side of Neville pricked up its ears at the thought of dinner and booze at Brian’s expense. If nothing else the place must surely offer a reasonable bottle of wine. 

  At that moment the door of his office opened and in came Richard Forbes, Neville’s immediate superior, and least favourite person on the planet. Against stiff competition.

  ‘Look, sorry, I’ll have to go,’ Neville told his sister.

  ‘Saturday night, then. Meet you there about seven thirty, OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes, fine. Bye.’ Neville hung up and braced himself to deal with his boss. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Fliss stood outside the Old Vicarage waiting for Cynthia to let her in, admiring the scale and abundance of the garden. It was a few moments before dusk, and a light mandarin tinge was lending the scene a warm, soft-focus appearance. The blossoms of spring had passed now, giving way to the brilliance of early summer shrubs and flowers. Here was a perfect example of the fittest surviving, as only the most robust and healthy plants had battled off the throttling weeds to claim their space and light. Although clearly neglected, the garden gave the impression of being more than capable of managing on its own, thank you very much.

  At last the door creaked open and a bathrobed Cynthia appeared. Fliss had no time to wonder at her choice of garment, as Hamlet barged out from behind his mistress to introduce himself.

  ‘Ahh, Fliss, so nice to find someone who understands the meaning of punctuality. Hamlet, let the poor girl in. Don’t mind him, he’s very friendly.’

  ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he,’ said Fliss, edging past the monstrous hound with no hope of evading his fearsome tongue. She resigned herself to being licked. She had never got used to dealing with Eric and Vinny up at the farm, but at least this dog didn’t appear to want to savage her.

  ‘I’m so looking forward to this,’ Cynthia spoke as she strode ahead. ‘Pam tells me you have worked wonders for her. Wonders! I thought we’d use the sitting room. Will the chaise longue be suitable?’ 

  She led Fliss into a high-ceilinged, draughty room. The fireplace harboured a dust-collecting arrangement of dried flowers. The mantelpiece was a muddle of ornaments and pieces of paperwork. Two table lamps gave off an ineffectual glow as the light through the enormous window began to fail. The chaise longue was covered in faded red velvet and dog hairs.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ said Fliss, setting her bag of crystals down on the floor. She straightened up to find a near naked Cynthia standing in front of her. A few wisps of startlingly transparent underwear where all that were, ineffectually, maintaining the woman’s modesty. ‘Oh! No, that’s not necessary. I mean, you can keep your clothes on.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure it will work like that?’

  ‘Quite sure. You don’t want to get cold. It’s important you’re able to relax,’ Fliss told Cynthia as she pulled her robe back on. ‘Just lie on your back and make yourself comfortable.’

  Fliss knelt beside the chaise and pulled from her bag a large square of purple velvet. She spread it on the floor and began placing her crystals upon it. Hamlet sat next to her and watched, apparently fascinated. Fliss tried to avoid meeting his eye, as the slightest attention provoked a further bout of licking. 

  ‘I don’t pretend to understand what you do with those things,’ said Cynthia, waving a hand at the stones, ‘I only know Pam strongly suggested I give it a try, and heaven knows I am in need of something.’ She placed the back of her hand on her brow and closed her eyes. ‘This has been a difficult time for me, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Yes, I was in the marquee when…’

  ‘Please! Don’t speak of it,’ she sighed. ‘Of course one often meets setbacks in life. I have had my share of disaster and calamity, not least losing Edmund so young. But somehow, this time, I simply do not seem able to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again.’ She stifled a small sob, removing her hand and turning, watery-eyed, to gaze at Fliss. ‘Do you think you can help me?’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Try to relax,’ Fliss lit a small cone of incense, then took out a notebook and pencil and sat cross legged on the floor. ‘Close your eyes if you wish. I’m going to ask you a few questions, just to give me an idea of what might best work for you, OK?’

  ‘My dear, I am entirely in your hands.’

  ‘First, can you tell me about any physical problems you’ve been having? Any aches or pains at all?’

  ‘I have enjoyed rude health all my life. My mother was the same. But lately I have felt a terrible weakness. A lethargy. As if everything and anything is simply too much effort.’ Cynthia closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘It’s not like me, not like me at all.’

  ‘I see,’ Fliss made a note or two. Hamlet leaned over her shoulder to see what she was doing. She pushed him off firmly, taking care not to inhale his fetid breath. In response to being touched he thumped down heavily onto his side and lay slowly whipping his tail against the floor. Small clouds of dust puffed up from the rug. 

   Fliss tried to focus.

  ‘You’ve told me you’ve had a difficult time just recently, would you describe yourself as depressed?’ she asked.

  Cynthia considered the question for a moment.

  ‘It pains me to admit it, but I think that is precisely what I am. It seems too silly, doesn’t it? All over something so unimportant.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s silly at all. The fundraiser wasn’t unimportant to you, and you’d worked very hard getting everything set up, I’m sure. It’s only natural to feel a bit down when all your efforts ended in…Well, I think it’s totally understandable.’ 

  ‘Do you really? You know, my dear, that is exactly what I need. Understanding. Aside from yourself there is really only one person who knows how I feel, who is simpathetique.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fliss made a few more notes, then put down her book and began to select stones.

  ‘Yes. Dearest Neville. My soul mate. I would be lost without his support. Utterly lost, I tell you.’

  Fliss looked again at her client. The worn candlewick bathrobe stretched lumpily over her short, solid, body. Cynthia’s hair was greying, thinning, and unwashed.  Her bare feet were strangers to a pumice stone. Her stout ankles bore a fuzz of hair that could not be blamed on Hamlet. Even given Fliss’s scant acquaintance with Neville, it was difficult to imagine him being interested in Cynthia. 

  ‘You know Neville, don’t you?’ Cynthia asked.

  ‘Oh, barely. I met him…last Saturday. I can put a face to the name. Have you known him long?’ Fliss gently placed a piece of rose quartz on Cynthia’s solar plexus.

  ‘We have both lived in the village for years, of course, but we met for the first time at a cookery weekend. We share a passion for all things culinary. Hence the fundraiser…’ she let the thought peter out.

  ‘Aah, I see.’ Fliss placed small pieces of tourmaline in each of Cynthia’s upturned palms. ‘That must be nice, to have a shared interest. And somebody appreciative to cook for. I’m afraid my daughter doesn’t think much of my cooking. Just tip your head back a little and keep nice and still. That’s lovely.’ She positioned a flat piece of turquoise on Cynthia’s brow.

  ‘Alas, poor Neville is such a busy man,’ sighed Cynthia. ‘He rarely has time for social engagements. That’s why I valued the time he so selflessly gave to NHEC. And all for nothing.’

  ‘Oh, not for nothing. I’m sure he enjoyed your company.’

  ‘I like to think so, of course, but,’ she opened her eyes and looked up at Fliss, ‘I expect you consider me a silly old woman who is deluding herself.’

  ‘Nonsense. You said yourself he understands you, that’s important. Shows he cares enough to bother.’ Fliss sat back on the floor. ‘Now, try not to think about anything for a few minutes. Let your mind relax as much as your body.’

  Cynthia sighed deeply, then closed her eyes once more and lay quiet and still. Fliss watched over her in the fading light of the neglected old room. Silence wrapped itself around them both. Silence which was eventually broken by a low rumbling snore. Fliss frowned at the figure in front of her, checking the stones, and wondering how she had gone wrong again. It was as she tweaked the position of the small garnet on Cynthia’s belly that she realised the noise was coming from behind her. She turned to see Hamlet, flat as a trophy rug, tail motionless now, his whole body shuddering through deep, baritone snores.

  Rose lifted Baby out of the car seat and turned to stare at the beautiful stately home in front of them. Milton-sub-Hubdan Hall was the sort of building designed to make people feel small. The broad flight of steps up to the columned portico alone was daunting enough to rivet Rose to the spot. The car which had been sent to collect her slipped away quietly, leaving mother and child alone. Rose contemplated strapping Baby into his buggy, but she would never have been able to haul it up the steps to the front door. On the point of heading off down the drive, she was relieved to hear someone scrunching over the gravel. Baby’s agent, Annabel, appeared, smiling enthusiastically.  The bubbly young woman waved as she called out.

  ‘Rose! Lovely to see you again. And Baby, looking gorgeous, as ever. We’re in the orangery, round the back.’ She grabbed the buggy with one hand and steered Rose with the other. ‘Fabulous location for a shoot, but, my God, the heat! Warmest day of the year, I shouldn’t wonder, and we have to spend it in a whopping great greenhouse!’ She laughed loudly. ‘Still, that’s showbiz! Did you have a good journey? Car all right? Look at darling Baby, such a good boy. And you’re going to keep on being a good boy for Mummy, aren’t you? I can tell.’ She hooked open the conservatory door with her foot, pausing for a second to look earnestly at Rose. ‘You’ve got a little gem here, Rose. A star in the making. Trust me,’ she tapped the side of her fine, hooked nose with a ruby nail, ‘I know star quality when I find it, and your little sweetheart has got it in spades. Marco!’ she bellowed. ‘Marco, we need hairdressing and make-up here please. Now would be good.’

   Rose let out a small gasp of delight. Before her eyes was a scene from another land. A far away place. A fairytale. The orangery was spectacular to begin with, but now it was a picture of fantasy. Sunbeams danced through the ivies and ribbons and swags of voile which festooned the upper parts of the room. Tiny silver stars and glass beads hung on wires, spinning and shinning in the light. Huge palms and ferns in pots the size of baby elephants gave an effect somewhere between jungle and midsummer night’s dream. Dotted among the plants and decorations where little sparkling silver chairs suspended on chains, with flowers woven into them. 

  The people in this wonderland were much more ordinary. Harassed looking men and women hurried about. Some were wearing headphones. Some were talking into telephones. Some were clutching clipboards. Others were carrying all manner of strange objects.  Everyone was hot and cross and busy. Expensive and complicated cameras and equipment trailed wires everywhere. In the far corner two small babies were being prevented from dismantling anything they could reach.

  Marco appeared, followed by a girl holding a tiny a bumblebee outfit, and a boy with a tray of juice. 

  ‘Ah, here we are.’ Annabel took a glass. ‘Have a drink, Rose, this is thirsty work. Pippa here has Baby’s costume, and in a minute she’ll take you to his dressing room. First, let Marco have a look at him. He’ll have a chat with you about doing Baby’s hair and make-up. OK? I’ll see you later, got to round up a missing toddler. His mother is reliably unpunctual.’

  Rose smiled nervously at Marco. He was not quite what she had been expecting. In her experience hairdressers were female, with complicated hairdos, and a tendency to be bored-looking. Either that, or the ones on TV were gay and a bit strange. Marco seemed reassuringly normal. He was big, too. At least six foot, and broad shouldered, and more than a little overweight. His voice was another surprise.

  ‘Hiya, Rose, is it?’ he asked in a soft Welsh baritone. 

  Rose nodded.

  ‘Nice to meet you, my lovely. And what a handsome young man this is.’ He took Baby’s hand and gave it a little shake. ‘Very pleased to meet you, too, bach. Welcome to the madhouse. No, I shouldn’t really say that, but you’ll see what I mean. There’s a competition going on here to see who can be the most stressed.’ He leant down to whisper in Rose’s ear, ‘I think our Director’s winning at the moment, but the bossy woman in the green dress is giving him a run for his money. There’ll be a ginormous row, now in a minute.’

  Rose laughed, startling herself with the unfamiliar sound. It had been a very long time since anyone had made her laugh like that. She smiled at Marco, who responded with the biggest grin she had ever seen. 

  ‘Baby won’t need much hairdressing as such,’ he told her, ‘although he does have plenty of the stuff, which makes a nice change. All some of these babies need is a wipe over with a damp cloth to bring up the shine! Anyway, I’ll help fix his antennae, and sort out a bit of bumbly make-up for him. You pop off with Pippa and I’ll catch up with you in five minutes, OK?’

  In the cluttered space which had been turned into a dressing room Rose gently wriggled Baby into his costume. As always he was happy and uncomplaining, and particularly enjoyed playing with his new wings. Other mothers and their babies arrived and there was a deal of cajoling and crying and tempers being lost. Soon the room was full of butterflies(,and) spiders(, and) grasshoppers(, and) snails and dragonflies. Baby was the only bee, and particular care had been taken with his outfit, which was all shimmering velvet and satin, with gossamer wings. Rose sat by the open window with Baby on her knee, hoping the cool air would stop him overheating. 

  ‘Here you are, my lovely.’ Marco pushed his way through the crush of people. ‘Thought for a minute you’d gone home. Not nervous, are you?’

  ‘Oh, just a little. It’s very hot. And so many people…’

  ‘New to this game, is it? Don’t you worry. The filming won’t take long, then you can get outside for some fresh air. Take Baby for a ride around the grounds.’

  ‘I’m glad I don’t have to go in front of the cameras,’ she said.

  ‘You’d look gorgeous – that blue really suits you.’

  Rose blushed a little.

  ‘Oh, thank you. I bought the outfit specially. I’d never been to an expensive boutique before. The lady who owned the shop was so nice. She had so many good ideas. She helped me chose the dress. And the shoes, and the bag.’

  ‘You want my advice, cariad? You buy all your clothes there from now on. Figure like yours, you want to show off those curves.’

  Rose fidgeted in her seat uncomfortably.

  ‘No,’ Marco explained, ‘I mean it. In this job I’m surrounded by women with pipe cleaners for legs, fried eggs for boobs, and no bums worth mentioning. It makes a very pleasant change to see a real woman. Very pleasant.’

  Rose stared at the big, strong, friendly man. That somebody might find her attractive was such an alien concept to her she was at a loss to know how to handle the idea.  Ryan had done a very good job over the years of destroying her self-esteem. But lately she had been making more of an effort. For Baby. Now that they had to go out and about, she didn’t want to show him up. And she knew she looked smart in her new outfit. When she had signed Baby up with the modelling agency Annabel had warned her she would need to be practical, organised, and reliable to make the most of his career. She knew that involved looking well turned out too. 

  ‘Right,’ without further warning, Marco picked up Baby and lifted him gently into the air, ‘come on, bumble bee bach, let’s get you ready for your close up.’

  Rose instinctively reached out a hand to take Baby back, then paused. She watched as Baby clapped his hands with glee, and listened as he broke into spontaneous, joyful laughter.

  ‘I think he likes you,’ she told Marco as they repositioned themselves by a highchair and a table of make-up.

  ‘Course he does, why wouldn’t he? He knows I’m just a big kid myself, don’t you, my little superstar?’ 

  Rose watched over Marco’s shoulder as he applied tiny amounts of glitter to Baby’s face, and a few dark smudgy lines. She glanced up at the mirror and saw her own reflection. Her hair was a mess, somehow managing to frizz and flop at the same time. She pushed it back off her face quickly. 

  Marco noticed the gesture.

  ‘The woman with the boutique hasn’t got a salon as well, I suppose?’ he asked.

  Rose shook her head.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I can’t do anything with it in this heat.’

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Marco swivelled round in his chair and softly stroked Rose’s hair, gently straightening out a curl, then letting it spring back into place again. ‘I can see where Baby gets his lovely locks from. I know people who would sell their grannies for curls like these. But you’re not making the best of them, my lovely.’

  Rose’s face showed her discomfort.

  ‘Not to worry,’ he told her.’ After the ‘shoot’ as we professionals call it,’ he said with mock importance,’ we’ll be hanging around for ages before we can go home. I won’t be busy then. We’ll find a basin and a quiet corner, and I’ll give you a do. How’d that be?’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t…it wouldn’t…I haven’t…’

  ‘Great, that’s settled then. Look out, Baby,’ he turned his attention back to the make-up, ‘we are going to make your Mam look fabulous.’

  Neville knocked smartly on the door of number three Brook Terrace and waited. He was ten minutes early, having decided this was not a social engagement, as such, so that lateness would be inappropriate. He heard footsteps and the door opened. A skinny teenage girl eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Oh,’ said Neville, ‘I’m looking for Fliss. Fliss Horton. This is the right house, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. You’re the man from the planning department, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s me,’ Neville waited for a possible introduction or an invitation to step inside. Neither came. ‘She is expecting me,’ he explained.

  ‘You’d better come in then.’

  Neville was led through the tiny hallway and into the kitchen. Fliss appeared.

  ‘Ah, Neville, I see you’ve met my daughter, Rhian. Great. Would you like a drink? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ she headed towards the fridge.

  ‘Well…OK, why not,’ he peered past her, trying to see what was on offer.

  Fliss turned and showed him the bottle.

  ‘Pinot Grigio do you?’

  ‘Oh,’ Neville was pleasantly surprised, ‘yes, thank you.’ 

  ‘Come on,’ Fliss grabbed a couple of glasses and a corkscrew and made her way to the sitting room, ‘might as well be comfortable,’ she said, settling onto the battered sofa.

  Neville chose an overstuffed armchair covered by a worn tapestry rug. It looked pretty robust, but was so soft it almost swallowed Neville whole. He sank into it, his backside coming to rest only a few inches above the floor. The resulting posture was comfortable, but unnervingly low, and far less business like than he had been aiming for. 

  Fliss uncorked the wine. Rhian lurked in the doorway.

  ‘Haven’t you got some homework you should be doing, Rhi?’ her mother asked. 

  Rhian scowled.

  ‘Just tell me to bugger off, why don’t you!’

  ‘Rhian…’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t stay where I’m not wanted,’ she said, slamming out of the room.

  ‘Sorry,’ Fliss handed Neville his drink, ‘she’s at that awkward age.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard it starts when children are born and ends shortly after their parents enter senility.’

  ‘That’s about right. None of your own, then?’

  ‘No,’ he took a swig of his wine. ‘This is really quite good.’

  ‘Is it? I wouldn’t know. I’ve a friend who’s trying to educate my palate, but I’m afraid it’s a lost cause. As long as it’s got alcohol in it, I’m happy. Now, tell me what you found out about Withy Hill. You said there was something.’

  ‘There was nothing enlightening on their website, but, well, the planning application…. it’s been rushed through.’

  ‘What, approved and granted and everything? Already?’

  ‘Looks that way. And I didn’t even get to pass an opinion.’

  ‘And you do normally?’ asked Fliss.

  ‘Yes, of course, that is my job. The oddest thing about it is the speed it’s all been done. Nothing happens quickly in planning, and yet this thing’s whizzed through.’

  ‘So who’s being paid off?’

  ‘Well it certainly isn’t me,’ Neville drained his glass. ‘ Not that people haven’t tried.’

  ‘Really? You were offered money to rubber stamp the thing?’

  ‘Well, not money, but…let’s just say someone tried to persuade me to look favourably on the application.’

  ‘And you didn’t think that was odd at the time? You didn’t do anything about it?’ Fliss refilled his glass.

  ‘I really didn’t take it seriously, to be honest. I had other things to think about.’

  ‘I hope you’re going to take it seriously now. For heaven’s sake, you saw the rat.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. I’ve had nightmares, you know.’

  ‘You think I haven’t? There is something very, very nasty going on up at that farm,’ Fliss topped up her own glass, ‘you have to see that now.’

  ‘Yes, OK, I agree, but we still don’t know what, exactly.’

  ‘We know they’re breeding monster rats. We know they’re planning a proper laboratory. We’re pretty sure they’ve bribed someone to get permission for the building.’

  ‘The thing that baffles me,’ said Neville, trying to adjust his position to something a little more appropriate, but sinking deeper into the man-eating chair, ‘is what a five-legged rat has got to do with chicken farming. I mean, what in God’s name are they going to do to the actual chickens?’

  ‘It makes me very glad to be a vegetarian, I can tell you. I can’t believe we were stupid enough to lose the rat in the woods.’

  ‘I like the ‘we’, you were the one in charge of exhibit A, as I remember it.’

  ‘What does that matter? The point is it’s out there somewhere. And what’s going to happen when somebody notices it’s missing?’

  ‘I should imagine they’ll worry that someone’s going to let the cat out of the bag. Or should I say the rat out of the bag,’ Neville allowed himself a little chuckle at his joke, but it was clear from Fliss’s expression she didn’t find it funny.

  ‘It’s all very well for you,’ she said ‘I work up there. They may very well start to point the finger of suspicion in my direction.’

  ‘Nobody saw you take it.’

  ‘I hope not. But I told you I was nearly discovered by that bizarre chef of yours.’

  ‘He is most definitely not my anything. I’m afraid he is not the man I thought he was, and frankly, after last Saturday’s fiasco, if I never hear the name Claude Lambert again it will be too soon.’

  ‘Well you may be hearing it quite a lot from now on,’ Fliss warned him. ‘It’s obvious he knows all about these experiments, he was in that room, and it wasn’t the first time he’d been in there. He already knew about the rats. He’s in this thing up to his popping little eyeballs. More wine?’

  Neville nodded and struggled to reach the offered bottle. From his inelegant, low-slung position, Fliss looked taller and slimmer than he remembered. 

  ‘What was he looking for, d’you think?’ Neville asked as she poured. ‘And why is he hanging around at the farm anyway?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. The Christians didn’t tell me he’d be staying there while they were away, and he’s been keeping a pretty low profile. That was the first I’d seen of him.’

  ‘You didn’t see what he took out of the cupboard?’

  ‘A jar of something, I couldn’t tell what.’

  ‘I’m guessing coriander is unlikely. Perhaps it was medicine of some kind. He’s obviously pretty ill.’

  ‘That’s one word for it,’ said Fliss.

  ‘Meaning?’

  Fliss sat back on the sofa, shaking her head, and ran a hand through her long loose hair.

  ‘Meaning I had a boyfriend once who looked like that, and a very expensive luxury he was too. When we split up he still had a habit that cost more per week than I live on for a month now.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Well poor old Claude didn’t get to look like that by eating all his posh nosh and then spending four hours a day on an exercise bike. Cocaine, I should imagine. Would explain the runny nose too. How I ever found that attractive…’

  Now it was Neville’s turn to slump back even further into his seat. 

  ‘This gets worse. No wonder the man was so moody and unreliable,’ A thought occurred to him, ‘Your old boyfriend, he wasn’t blue, by any chance?’

  ‘No. That’s new to me. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone such a peculiar colour,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes you have,’ Neville corrected her.

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Short fellow, twitchy, leggy, you might say. Houdini tendencies. Ring any bells?’

  ‘My God, the rat! The rat was blue too.’

  ‘Ergo, either our long-tailed chum had a cocaine habit, or…’

  ‘It’s not cocaine. Claude’s using something else. Something they give to the rats. Something to do with the experiments.’

  ‘Poor sod must be even madder than we thought.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Fliss held up a hand, shaking her head again, ‘this is getting too weird. Blue rats with five legs. Blue burnt out chefs. What are they trying to make? Colour co-ordinated manic chickens? And why on earth would Claude take the stuff?’

  ‘Presumably it has some attractive side effects. Did you happen to notice if any of those caged rats were sleeping? Or were they all busy re-arranging their little bits of furniture, or spinning round in their wheels and chatting to one another ceaselessly? Or partying, perhaps?’ Neville drank more.

  ‘I’m glad you find this funny. I find it extremely scary,’ Fliss told him.

  ‘Sorry, you’re right. Not funny.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’s another thing(,:) who were those two heavies hanging around Claude’s car on Saturday? And why did the sight of them make him bolt like that?’

  ‘To know that I think you’d have to talk to Claude.’

  ‘Is he still up at the farm?’

  ‘I suppose so, I haven’t been back since the rat-nap. Anyway, we can hardly just waltz up and ask him, can we?’ Fliss pointed out.

  Neville sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his temples wearily. The room was warm and quiet, the wine fairly strong, and the chair seductively comfy.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I really can’t think about this any more at the moment. My head is starting to spin. What say we sleep on it? The Christians are still away, so surely nothing much is going to happen for a day or so.’

  ‘OK. But we have to come up with something,’ said Fliss.

  Neville clambered to his feet.

  ‘Thanks for the wine,’ he followed Fliss out of the sitting room, watching the way her red hair swung as she walked. At the front door he paused, another urgent matter having come into his head.

  ‘Look, I’m going out for a bite to eat with my sister and her husband on Saturday night. Nothing fancy. Just up the road. I don’t suppose you’d like to join us?’

  Fliss turned and smiled, a lovely, big, warm smile.

  ‘That’s really sweet of you, Neville. But I’m afraid I’m busy on Saturday. Well, weekends in general. I have a friend who comes to stay…’ she trailed off.

  ‘Oh, yes of course. Fine. Forget about it.’ Neville squeezed past her and hurried out. ‘I’ll call you if I have any brainwaves about Withy Hill,’ he assured her, then headed home, wondering why he felt a strange mixture of happiness and disappointment.

to be continue d…

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Eleven appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Ten

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In the sunny front room of Honeysuckle cottage Rose hummed as she dusted. Baby had recently given up his mid morning nap, and was enjoying the movements of the feather duster. Ryan was still in bed, which was not unusual for a Sunday morning. But this time he was not sleeping off a hangover. This time he wasn’t recovering from the excesses of a late night out with the boys. Or with somebody else. This time he was laid low by stomach cramps, still suffering with diarrhoea, complaining of nausea, refusing food, and feebly demanding Lucozade. 

  Rose whipped out a soft yellow cloth and lovingly polished Baby’s cup, which now had pride of place on the mantelpiece. She had enjoyed going to the fun day at Withy Hill, even if she had got a little wet on the walk home. Quite a number of people had read of Baby’s success and come up to congratulate them. And Baby had smiled and gurgled and patiently put up with their silly faces and coo-ing and nonsense talk. Rose herself had never understood why people insisted on speaking to babies as if they were simple, when it was plain to see they were really very clever indeed. But Baby was good-natured, and seemed to know when people meant well. 

  ‘Rose? Rose?’ Ryan’s wail crept down the stairs to her. 

  Instinct drove her towards the door, but then she paused. And waited a little.

  ‘Rose? Where the hell are you, woman? Are you sodding deaf?’ 

  Rose’s jaw tightened a fraction. She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, then picked Baby up and went into kitchen.

  By the time Ryan appeared she was busy liquidizing meals for the freezer.

  ‘I’ve been calling you, didn’t you here me?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. The blender is so noisy… Are you feeling any better?’

  ‘Do I look fucking better to you? Well do I?’ He pulled his dressing gown tighter around him and slumped onto a chair. ‘I feel like shit, if you must know.’

  ‘I expect you’ve picked up a tummy bug.’ Rose added cooked carrots to the liquidizer and whizzed for a second.

  ‘Do you have to make that racket?’ Ryan demanded once she had stopped. ‘And anyway, if it’s a bug why haven’t you got it, eh? Why hasn’t he?’ He jerked his head in the direction of Baby in his highchair.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose we don’t go to the same places you do. We don’t mix with the same people. Is there someone at work who’s been ill, perhaps?’ She spooned the lumpy orange mixture out of the jug and into small tubs for freezing.

  Ryan paled visibly.

  ‘If someone at work was ill they wouldn’t be at work, would they? They’d be at home, being looked after. Unlike some of us, just left to sodding rot. I thought you were bringing me up a drink.’

  Wordlessly Rose fetched him a glass of Lucozade and set it on the table before him.  He sipped at it pathetically. 

  ‘Do you think you’ll be going to work tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? I can hardly stand up, how am I going to go to work?’ He drank a little more then belched loudly. ‘Anyway, the car’s still not right.’

  ‘Oh, won’t it start?’

  ‘It starts, nothing wrong with the engine. But there’s this rattle, somewhere in the dashboard. I can’t find where the bastard thing’s coming from. It’s getting on my tits, I don’t mind telling you. Useless twats at the garage couldn’t sort it out. I’ll have to take it to the Subaru dealer in Bournemouth. When I’m well enough.’

  ‘I see,’ said Rose. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be going out again this week then?’

  ‘Out?’

  ‘For one of your evening meetings. You know, like the ones you usually have on Thursdays.’

  Ryan squinted up at Rose, trying to read her expression. She merely smiled back at him sweetly.

  ‘No,’ he said at last, ‘I don’t think I’m in any fit state for evening meetings at the moment.’

  Rose nodded and set about washing up. As she stood at the sink she could see from Ryan’s reflection in the window that he was looking at her.

  ‘Have you lost some weight at last?’ he asked after a while.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Rose didn’t turn to speak.

  ‘New dress then, is it?’

  She shook her head, ‘No, just one I haven’t worn for a while, that’s all.’ She watched his reflection digest this information as he ran a hand through his unusually dishevelled hair.  Then, very softly, she began to hum again.

  The conservatory that was appended to The Old Vicarage had been built before the term makeover was invented. It was more in the way of a leftover from an earlier fashion for glass and engineering and potted palms.  In its day it might have been elegant and chic and modish, but this was not its day.  Now it clung to the side of the house like the husk of a dead spider, spindly, frail, and only semi-transparent. The attentions of a window-cleaner might have helped. As would some judicious clearing out of the sickly and neglected plants inside. In particular the aged and fruitless vine deserved to be put out of its misery and consigned to a bonfire. It had outgrown its cracked terracotta pot many years ago, and now sagged on withered limbs as it hung from the decaying structure, which it would one day surely bring crashing to the ground if no action was taken. 

  Neville’s mind, however, was on things other than the sorry condition of his surroundings. Against his better judgement he had let Cynthia persuade him to come for coffee to discuss the disaster of the day before. As she sat beside him on the small cane sofa, pouring cream into cups, he was only too aware that this was a woman on the brink of collapsing into tears and despair. And a lachrymose Cynthia was something he was entirely focussed on avoiding. So much so that for once he was grateful for Hamlet’s pungent presence.

  ‘He’s looking very well, Cynthia,’ he risked patting the dog, managing to find an area of skin apparently less scrofulous than most. Hamlet responded with a low groan of pleasure.

  Cynthia was not interested.

  ‘Really, I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to show my face in the village,’ she said in a voice cracking with emotion. ‘I’ll never be taken seriously again.’

  ‘Cynthia, you mustn’t let yourself get all worked up about what happened. People will soon forget…’

  ‘No they won’t. They never forget when you make a mess of something. Oh, they’re quick to forget all one’s tireless years of service to the village; all the things that have gone right – the money made for the church roof, or the new playground, or the victory of the Pelican crossing. Oh yes, they soon forget about all that. But such a debacle as yesterday…. never!’

  ‘But it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t control the weather, or Claude, or the tent, people won’t be blaming you.’ 

  ‘Yes they will! They always want someone to blame.’

  ‘But we gave everyone their money back.’ Neville was beginning to regret having made any sort of fuss of Hamlet, as the dog now insisted on resting its head in his lap. The drool was already starting to seep into his trousers. 

  ‘Don’t remind me!’ Cynthia gulped her coffee. ‘Do you realise how out of pocket NHEC is? Not only was the main event of the day a complete fiasco, not to mention the rest being a washout, but we have actually lost money. All our hard work, all our efforts and creativity, all wasted. All we have to show for it is an enormous hole in the bank balance and a ruined marquee. I have been totally humiliated.’ She began to sniff.

  Neville pushed the plate of Bourbons towards her.

  ‘Have a biscuit. I expect your blood sugar’s low. You haven’t eaten since yesterday, have you?’

  Unfortunately the hint of concern in Neville’s words was just sufficient to tip Cynthia over the edge. Tears brimmed from her eyes, accompanied by a sharp wail. The effect on Neville was that of fingernails on a blackboard.

  ‘Please, don’t cry, Cynthia, it’ll only make you feel worse.’ He winced as the wailing increased.

  ‘Impossible!’ she sobbed.

  Even Hamlet was affected by Cynthia’s distress. He stopped ruining Neville’s trousers, lifted his nose, let his cankerous ears flop back, and started an eerie howl. 

  ‘Cynthia…’ Neville tried to make himself heard above the din, ‘please calm down,’ he risked patting her hand lightly. It was all the encouragement Cynthia needed. She threw herself against him, lurching onto his lap and weeping on his shoulder, her arms fastened around his neck.

  ‘Oh Neville,’ she sobbed, ‘what would I do without you? I knew you would understand. You are my soul mate, mon cher.’

  Her tears soaked into his shirt, causing the second soggy patch on his clothing in the space of five minutes.  Neville gently took hold of her hands in the hope of loosening her grip, but she clung on like a Koala in a bush fire, her whole body racked with sobs.

  ‘It’s so hard facing everything alone,’ she squeaked. ‘People don’t realise; they think big, bossy Cynthia doesn’t mind anything. They think I should be used to being a widow after all these years. But I am a woman, Neville,’ she pulled back a little, keeping her face only a few inches from his. ‘A woman as fragile and as vulnerable as any other.’ Her ruddy nose was almost touching his now. ‘You understand about how a woman feels, my dearest, I know you do. That is why you are here now. I knew you would come to me in my hour of need.’

  Fighting rising panic, Neville gently but firmly disentangled himself from Cynthia, though he was unable to dislodge her from his lap.

  ‘Look,’ he still had to compete with Hamlet’s mournful noise, ‘I really think you’re blowing things up out of all proportion here. You mustn’t let it get to you so much. If people are determined to criticise, well, let them. What does it matter?’ He took a deep breath, ‘We know the truth. I know how much hard work you put into organising yesterday’s…um, yesterday. Let other people think what they like.’

  Cynthia swallowed another sob and struggled to produce a wobbly smile. Given her wet, blotchy features, the effect was rather unfortunate.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ her voice was a whisper, ‘why should I care what others think(,) when I have you.’

  This was too much for Neville. Merely dragging himself to the Vicarage to deal with Cynthia had used up his year’s supply of good deeds, and he could feel his patience coming to an end.  On top of which, he was very afraid the woman was reading far too much into his few words of consolation. His trousers had been drooled on. His shirt had been sobbed over. His lap had been sat upon. Hamlet was still bellowing out strangled notes. And Cynthia’s weight was beginning to put Neville’s leg to sleep.  It was time to go home.  He stood up, ungallantly letting Cynthia grab hold of the table for support as she slid off his lap.  

  ‘Now I really think you should have a little lie down,’ he told her, then, seeing the hopeful look on her face, added, ‘alone. I’m sure you’ll feel much better after a rest.’

  ‘Very well, darling boy, if you think it best.’

  She straightened her crumpled dress and ineffectually patted at her hair.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ said Neville, removing Hamlet’s nose from his crotch. 

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Cynthia told him. ‘Perhaps we could meet again, later in the week. We must be ready to present a united front to the committee before the day of reckoning.’

  ‘Quite. Don’t you worry about that now,’ Neville walked backwards keeping both Hamlet and Cynthia at arm’s length. When he reached the outer door of the conservatory he gave a curt wave before slamming the door on the dog and making hastily for his bike.

  Neville pedalled quickly away, relieved to be heading for the safety and tranquillity of his flat. His relief was short-lived, however, when he found Fliss on his doorstep pressing the doorbell. As his bike squeaked to a halt she turned and saw him.

  ‘Ah, Neville, I was hoping I’d find you at home.’

  ‘Miss Horton…’ he began.

  ‘Fliss, please. And before you say anything, there’s no need to apologise for yesterday. Let’s just put the whole thing down to an unfortunate accident and forget about it, shall we?’

  ‘Me apologise?’ Neville got off his bike and frowned at the woman who was blocking his path. ‘I seem to remember you were the one haranguing me.’

  ‘Rubbish, I was simply trying to get some information out of you.’

  ‘At an entirely inappropriate time and place. As is this. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy what’s left of my Sunday in peace.’

  ‘How can you? How can you hide away up there in your little nest and pretend nothing is happening?’

  Neville looked pointedly over first his left shoulder, then his right.

  ‘As far as I can see nothing is happening.’ He attempted to wheel past her but she refused to budge.

  ‘There is something going on up at Withy Hill Farm and you know about it. You must do. You’re in charge of planning applications…’

  ‘For the hundredth time, I am not in charge.’

  ‘…you must know they want to build some sort of laboratory up there. Why haven’t there been public notices? The people who live here have a right to know what’s going on in the village. We should have an opportunity to register our protest.’

  ‘It strikes me you’re managing to do that very well yourself. Look, if you have any queries about local planning issues you really should go through the proper channels.’

  ‘Oh yes, and how long will that take? Meanwhile, everything gets rushed through and rubber stamped and before we even know what’s going on it’s all done and dusted.’

  ‘You credit our department with far more stamping and dusting than ever gets done, I assure you.’

  ‘Why won’t you just answer a few questions? What are you trying to hide?’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘I don’t see why anyone who lived here would be happy for God knows what sort of experiments to be going on right on their doorstep. Unless there was something in it for them, of course.’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious you know the Christians pretty well. And that peculiar chef whose restaurant they supply. Perhaps you’re all in cahoots.’

  ‘Cahoots! I’ve had enough of this. You have the nerve to come here, to my home, on a Sunday, and accuse me of…. well, to be frank, I don’t know what in God’s name you are accusing me of, but whatever it is I don’t like it. And I resent your tone, and your assumptions.’

  ‘What am I supposed to think? If you really don’t have a clue what’s going on under your nose, then that makes you culpably stupid.’

  ‘A much more flattering option. Let’s agree I’m an idiot and all go home. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ He all but shoved her off his doorstep and fumbled for his key.

  ‘What if I get you proof?

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ Neville turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

  ‘Proof that there really is something to be concerned about. Proof that I’m not imagining all this just to spoil your weekend.’ 

  Fliss put her hand on Neville’s arm as he tried to manoeuvre his bike onto the doorstep.  He saw her look at the damp patch on his shirt and then lower her gaze to the shiny wetness on his trousers. Slowly, she withdrew her hand.  Neville rolled his eyes and sighed.

  ‘OK. You bring me proof, whatever that looks like, of something…untoward, and I’ll look into it. Satisfied?’

  ‘Promise?’ 

  Neville met her stare now, surprised by the greenness of her eyes. 

  ‘I promise,’ he said, and found himself meaning it.

  As usual, by four o’clock Fliss was checking her watch.  Her Monday afternoon cleaning stint at Withy Hill always seemed to drag, and this one was no exception. At least with the Christians still away she didn’t have anyone breathing down her neck or checking up on her. She also had the added incentive of being determined to find something to wave under Neville’s patronising nose.  This had to be her best chance, with no one else in the house. She went through to the study and sat in Mr Christian’s ludicrously large leather chair. She scoured his desk, but it had been cleared and yielded nothing. She swivelled slowly, taking in the whole room. The shelves had pretend books on them boasting smart embossed covers and no content. Here and there an object d’art of dubious taste filled a space. The walls were hung with photographs of motor yachts and racehorses. There were two filing cabinets beside the desk. Fliss got up and tried to open them. Locked. She tried the drawers in the desk in search of a key. Nothing. The only cabinet with anything in it was the one containing a whisky decanter and glasses. 

  Fliss crossed over to the window and looked outside. From here she had a clear view of the rear of the farm, where most of the chicken barns were.  A farm labourer came out of one of them and went to the back door of the house. She watched him open it and let out Vinnie and Eric. The dogs had been shut up for some time and leapt and snapped at nothing in particular, practising their growls and sharp barks. Instinctively Fliss took a step back from the window. She watched as the man and the dogs headed off in the direction of the far fields. 

  ‘There must be something,’ she told herself. ‘Something somewhere.’

  At that moment a small man in a suit came out of an unimportant looking building attached to the end of one of the barns. He started to lock the door, but was interrupted by his mobile phone. Fliss saw him answer it, then walk away from the building, still talking, climb into his car, and drive away. She squinted at the door. The keys were still in it.

  It took her some time to walk out of the front door, around the side of the house, and over to the small outbuilding. As she walked she tried to look casual and confident in case anyone was watching, but all the time she kept a weather eye out for the return of the hateful dogs. By the time she reached the door her heart was thumping. With a quick glance behind her she went inside.  The room was quite large, but so crowded with boxes and equipment and tables and cupboards that Fliss find it difficult to make her way across it. It seemed to be something between an office and a storeroom. She checked the small desk with the telephone on it, but the scribble pad was empty and the drawers locked. She opened one or two cupboards, but found nothing important. There were cartons of medicines for various chicken ailments; tubes of ointments; bottles of antiseptic; packets of bandages; and boxes of latex gloves. All legitimate veterinary products one might expect to find on a well-run poultry farm. On the far wall was a large metal cabinet, which appeared to be bolted to the wall. Fliss tried the handle, and was not surprised to find it locked.  As she looked around for something she might free the latch with, Fliss heard small scratching noises coming from behind a tall shelving unit. Cautiously, she walked towards the sound. Behind the shelves she saw a low table on which sat half a dozen or so metal cages. As she drew closer she could see there were small animals inside. She stood as close as she dared and peered inside the first cage.

  To begin with she couldn’t quite make out what was running about among the sawdust and hay. Then she saw it. And what she saw made her hand fly to her mouth to stop a shriek of horror.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she said aloud, unable to stop staring at the creature in front of her. She tried to focus. ‘A box,’ she told herself, taking one or two deep breaths. ‘I need a small box.’

  The room had seemed full of boxes when she first came in, but now she was having trouble finding one to suit her needs. A stout box, not too large, and with a firm, well-fitting lid. She found a walk-in store-cupboard at the back of the room. Inside she spied what she needed and started to empty it of its contents. 

  The sound of the door opening and shutting caused her to drop the box. She froze briefly, and then flattened herself behind the cupboard door. Someone was definitely moving about in the room. Fliss forced herself to peer through the tiny gap beneath the hinge to try and see who it was and what they were doing. The store cupboard door was not fully shut, so that there was just enough of a space between it and the jam for her to squint through.   She saw a thin man apparently searching through a number of keys on a ring.  As he turned a little more to the side she saw his face for the first time.

  ‘Claude Lambert!’ she mouthed.

  Claude selected a key and used it to open the large metal cabinet. Fliss watched him hurriedly take out a brown glass bottle and put it in his pocket. He relocked the cabinet and turned to leave. As he did so Fliss leant forwards a fraction and just touched the door, which gave a grating little creak.

  Claude stopped and looked around.

  Fliss bit her lip and held her breath.

  Claude walked towards the store cupboard, looking almost as nervous as Fliss felt. He reached out for the handle. Fliss closed her eyes. At that moment one of the inmates of the cages squeaked as it scuttled through its sawdust, distracting the chef. He paused for a moment, then shook his head and quickly left the building.

  Fliss breathed heavily and waited for a full two minutes before venturing out of her hiding place. With shaking hands she returned to the cages. She forced herself to open the nearest one, and slowly, carefully, gingerly reached inside.

  ‘Come on, little one,’ she said softly, ‘there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

  Fliss paced nervously as she waited for Neville. It was quite dark now, with a feeble moon. All about her, among the trees, things rustled and squeaked and fidgeted. She slipped her rucksack off her shoulders and set it down carefully on the dry earth. Although it was a warm night, she pulled her jacket tight around her and did up another button. She squinted down the track, focussing on nothing for a full minute before Neville’s bike light came into view.

  ‘At last,’ she failed to keep the edge out of her voice.

  ‘I came as quickly as I could.’ He dismounted. ‘It’s quite a pull from the village, you know. Why we couldn’t simply meet at my place…’

  ‘Come here,’ Fliss interrupted him. She bent over her rucksack and extracted a small cardboard box. She waited impatiently while Neville leant his bike against a tree.

  ‘Hold that,’ she handed him her torch.

  ‘What is all this about?’ Neville wanted to know. ‘I was in the middle of a batch of scones. They’ll be like rock cakes now; you can’t just leave the mix sitting about.’

  ‘Neville, shut up.’

  ‘There’s no need to be snippy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but will you please just look.’ She held the box towards him and removed the lid.

  Neville directed the torch beam inside.

  ‘Shit!’ he cried, stepping back quickly. ‘It’s a rat! What are you doing with that?’

  ‘I told you on the phone, I found it at Withy Hill.’

  ‘You told me you’d found something, you didn’t say it was a bloody rat. Don’t they have pest control up there?’

  ‘It’s not that sort of rat. Look more closely.’

  Gingerly, Neville peered in again.

  ‘What’s that? That thing on its back?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a leg.’

  ‘A leg! That’s disgusting. How did it get there?’

  ‘The rat grew it.’

  ‘You make it sound like a beard. For heaven’s sake, rats don’t grow spare legs on a whim.’

  ‘OK, I wasn’t being accurate. I mean the rat was born with it, and the leg grew.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Somebody…….engineered it,’ Fliss told him.

  ‘What in God’s name for? Difficult enough catching the little buggers already, isn’t it? Who wants faster rats?’

  ‘Nobody. It’s a guinea pig.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t come up here for a rodent Who’s Who.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Fliss snapped. ‘And have you noticed the colour. At first glance it looks white, but it’s not, is it? It’s blue.’

  They watched the hapless creature as it twitched its whiskers and blinked in the strong light. Suddenly it scratched an urgent itch on the back of its head. With its fifth leg.

  ‘Urgh!’ said Neville. ‘For pity’s sake put the lid back on.’

  Fliss was in the process of doing just that when she heard twigs snapping.

  ‘There’s someone coming!’ she hissed. ‘Quick! Behind this tree.’

  They dropped to the floor and scuttled around the nearest oak.

  ‘Can you see who it is?’ Neville asked.

  ‘No. But there’s definitely someone there. Yes, I can see them,’ Fliss told him. ‘But I can’t make out who it is. I wonder what they’re doing out here at this time of night.’

  ‘Bird watching? Badger baiting? Rat spotting? Who gives a flying fart? I can’t stay crouched here like this much longer – my knees are seizing up.’

  ‘Stop whining. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s a woman. Whoever it is has got a …shovel.’ Fliss swallowed. ‘They seem to be burying something.  Shhh!’ She froze.

  The dark shadow of a person stopped digging and turned in their direction. Whoever it was took a step forward and frowned into the gloom. Fliss and Neville held their breath. The figure turned, finished her task, then left quickly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Fliss stood up. ‘They’ve gone now.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that.’ Neville unfolded himself stiffly, brushing moss and twigs from his trousers.

  ‘Who do you think it was? What do you think they were up to?’ Fliss groped for the rucksack and lowered the box towards it.

  ‘You are mistaking me for someone who cares.’

  ‘Pretty odd, though, don’t you think?’ Fliss lifted the lid to check on the passenger. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘It’s gone. The rat’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘How should I know? Don’t just stand there, look for it.’ She dropped to the ground again.

  ‘Are you completely mad? If the thing’s escaped it’s hardly likely to be hanging around waiting for us to catch it again, is it? Forget it, he’s long gone.’

  ‘She,’ Fliss corrected him. ‘It was a she.’

  ‘No, sorry, that information makes me no keener to grovel about in the dirt in the dark hoping to find something I would much rather run away from.’

  Fliss stood up again and put her face close to Neville’s so he could not ignore her.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘It’s female. It’s a lab rat. It’s a mutant. It might well be pregnant, for all we know. Do you want to be responsible for infesting the Dorset countryside with blue five-legged rats? Well do you?’

  ‘How is it my fault?’

  ‘We don’t have time to argue,’ Fliss stomped into the undergrowth.

  ‘Oh for goodness sake,’ Neville picked up a stick and poked at a fallen log. ‘Couldn’t have made it glow in the dark while they were at it. Nothing helpful like that, oh no.’

  ‘Shut up, you’ll frighten it away.’

  ‘I’ll frighten it!’ he probed a patch of nettles carelessly. ‘This is mission impossible. I’ve better things to do with my time than play hide and seek with Frankenstein’s hamster.’

  Fliss stood up, shoulders drooping with the hopelessness of it all. ‘Bugger,’ she said quietly.

To be continued…

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A Day in the Life. Life of PA Part Five

Welcome back to Life of PA!  It has been a minute since my last blog. Life has been very busy with a combination of both good and bad events, but busy nonetheless. I wanted to touch upon some more specific parts of my personal assistant role. Not only a day in the life, but rather a week or so. I have started doing a new tradition called Word of the Week where I snatch a word either from one of Mum’s books, one that has some relevance to what I have been doing recently or just a word that I like the sound of. I find these types of posts have been incredibly good for engaging and involving our lovely readers. For example, last week’s word was ‘Home‘. This encouraged people to tell us personal tales of where they grew up. Additionally, stories of the different significant people in their lives that create their idea of ‘Home’.

Click this sweet kitty to see my previous blog!Time Management for a Day in the Life

As mentioned in my previous blog, time management is vital for a day in the life of a personal assistant. Not only do I have to try and manage my own time, but another very busy persons too. I find some weeks to be easier to organise and others get away from me just as the week starts. A job that involves a lot of thinking and planning is quite new to me. I am very much used to go to work at the same time every day, do my hours and list, come home and not have a second thought about it. That being said, this type of job allows me not just the freedom to pick away at things when an idea springs to mind. It also allows me to expand my knowledge and use different parts of my brain that had seemingly been lying dormant since college!

Another major part of my job is managing various social media platforms. With each passing month I seem to be expanding to another one, who knew there were so many? Next up on my list is YouTube, which is incredibly daunting. This means that you lovely people will get to see and hear Mum and I in all our glory soon. Please be gentle with criticism as I am very much used to hiding behind words on a screen!

Click here to go to our YouTube channel!Hobbies and Day to Day

A part of my job that is as important as social media is the small daily tasks. By that I mean cleaning the office, sorting the filing or ordering various family members’ prescriptions etc. These things are vital to Mum’s day and when put together, take up a lot of precious writing time. By taking up at least a portion of the slack for these, she has more time to focus her wonderful mind on the bigger things. Mum has also taken up the new hobby of playing the piano now that she has a bit more time after writing. For anyone, I feel it is so important to create a work life balance to have time to do something that either stimulates or relaxes your mind. My current obsession is any type of Lego. I find it helps me to relax and provides me with a sense of achievement as I have created something lovely to display. What is your favourite fiddly hobby?

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Receiving Reviews and Feedback – Skyla Special

Receiving reviews and feedback from well known book news sources always boosts your confidence, especially when continuing a series. To see that people carry on enjoying your content as it morphs and changes over time is a fantastic feeling. Personally, I have only experienced feedback from our lovely audience and that is enough to boost my ego! I know Mum spends a large portion of time researching different historical elements. From major events down to what coloured hat pins were common at the time, historical accuracy is vital. A segment of my job is to research different bits of history such as The Reading Room in London or the process of making stained glass in the Victorian era. I love then receiving reviews and feedback from Mum, then seeing the research implemented. Today’s quote is from The Garden of Promises and Lies. Click the image to go to the website page to discover more about the book.

Click the image to go to the US Amazon page!

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A Flavour of Each – A Skyla Special

As always, I like to try something new with my content to see what everyone enjoys most. These quote images are designed to provide a flavour of each book. Whether that inspires you to request them at your local library, give the amazing audio versions a try, to try one you have not yet read or guides you back to an old favourite. My goal is to provide provoking snippets to both new and long-time readers.

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Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Nine

Half pheasant half bantam.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The early morning of the Nettlecombe Hatchet Cookery Demonstration and Fun Day, as the occasion had been snappily named, was blessed with the rosy sunshine of a very British summer. A wisp of mist rose from the brook, which could be tracked back up and out of the village to its source at Withy Hill Farm.  The scene was in soft focus, as the gentle light quivered in dew drops and diamond-strung webs, and glistened on leaves of viridian trees, which yawned and stretched their limbs as the day woke them up.  The Farm itself had worked hard at hiding its true identity of rural industry, of factory, of place of business, and was instead carefully dressed in its bucolic summer best. All was rustic charm and Arcadian calm, contrived to disarm and beguile the observer into believing that God was in his heaven, and all was right with the world. 

  Tubs and troughs and hanging baskets overflowed with the brightest of blooms, all selected for their quality of relentless cheerfulness, and for the eye-smarting brilliance of their hues. Busy-Lizzies jostled for space with shameless pansies, blousy begonias, petulant petunias, strident geraniums, and the restless and hectic lobelia.  Soon ladies in their good-weather frocks would pick up the theme, chameleon like in their floral prints, competing with the flowers for the sunshine.

  In the old meadow to the side of the farm, comfortably away from any hint of the modern and the new, stalls and stands and little tents and grand marquees had sprung up mushroom-like over night. There was something here for everyone, and so in attempting to please all, nothing was exactly suited to anyone. The beautiful carousel with its transfixed horses would be ignored by thrill-addicted children, and was chiefly an expensive piece of decoration.  The Treasure Hunt would attract the would-be gamblers, but had no entertainment value whatsoever for the spectators. And at the end of the day the trove would reveal a beauty parlour voucher, much to the bemusement of the lucky winner, Mr Albert Games, in his ninetieth year.  The Guess The Weight of the Lamb would start well, but become an increasingly malodorous stand as the day wore on, the focus of such scrutiny nervously and frequently relieving itself in its small pen.  Perhaps it sensed its fate; perhaps it knew it was to be sacrificed on the altar of fun, and that its corpse would be first prize. 

  Parents would struggle for a few hours to convince their children that entertainment could come without a microchip. By four o’clock they would wonder why they bothered. By six o’clock every teenager would be home and plugged in once more.  

  Local food producers with unshakeable smiles would stand behind cheeses and pickles and sausages and hams, and yoghurts and cakes and biscuits and jams, knowing that they would barely cover their costs, but convincing themselves they were living the good life. 

  However much effort was made to elevate the tone and appeal to the finer senses, most of the money would be made by the bouncy castle and the hot-dog stall.

  By nine thirty Rose had Baby is his buggy and was wheeling in the direction of Withy Hill. She would be among the first to arrive, but she had Baby’s routine to consider. Slung beneath the little chair was a fine picnic for the pair of them, along with plenty of bottles in cooling flasks, and one or two favourite toys. The prospect of an outing in the sunshine showing off Baby made Rose smile as she pushed along the lane. The day was already beginning to warm up, and showed signs of continuing the sultry heat that had been a feature of the weather for nearly ten days now.  Rose adjusted the fringed parasol over Baby’s bonneted head. 

  As they reached the entrance to the meadow they met Cynthia hurrying in the direction of the big marquee.

  ‘Ahh, Mrs Behr, and little Baby Behr!’ Cynthia swooped.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Danby. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is. We are so fortunate to have the sun shine on our little party. And how is our local superstar, hmmm?’ she bent over the buggy, causing Baby to stop gurgling and stretch his eyes. She stood up again and addressed Rose. ‘I read about his success in the Echo. My dear, how thrilling! You must be so very proud.’

  Rose blushed a little and smiled.

  ‘He was such a good boy,’ she said. ‘We had to go to London, for the final, and he didn’t mind a bit. Really, Mrs Danby, I think he enjoyed it all.’

  ‘I’m sure he did.  And will his daddy be joining us today?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He wasn’t feeling very well this morning,’ said Rose.

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry to hear that. Anyway, it’s lovely to see you and Baby here. I know you’ll have a fun-filled day. We’re not quite up and running yet, though,’ she checked her watch.

  ‘Oh, we’re always early for…’ Rose stopped, mouth open, and stared at the car pulling into the farmyard.  It was a sleek, metallic blue Subaru Impreza. Ryan’s car. And yet, as far as Rose knew, Ryan was in bed nursing a gripy tummy and a nasty bout of diarrhoea.  She watched the car come to a halt and the engine stop. Her grip tightened on the buggy handles.

  Cynthia turned to see what she could be staring at.  

  ‘Ahh, splendid. I see Claude Lambert has arrived. A little later than expected, but there we are. My goodness, I believe it’s getting warmer by the minute. Please excuse me, I must go and see that he has everything he needs.’ She strode away, a woman with more than enough to do.

  Rose watched the celebrity chef and the beautiful woman climb out of the car as Cynthia approached. Her hold on the buggy relaxed once more and she pushed on towards the flower tent.

  After Neville had pinched his fingers in the trestle table for the third time he decided it wasn’t going to be moved another inch.

  ‘It’ll be fine here,’ he told Pam.

  ‘Didn’t Cynthia say…?’

  ‘If Cynthia doesn’t like it she can move it herself. God, look at the time. Let’s get the cloths on, and then we can start bringing the equipment in. Where is everybody else, anyway? I wasn’t expecting to have to do all the donkey work.’ He adjusted the name badge which declared him Event Organiser. One of Cynthia’s daffier ideas, as far as he was concerned.

  ‘You’re lucky you’ve got me.’ Pam reinforced her point by effortlessly picking up four folding chairs. ‘The pub is going to be packed out on a steaming day like this. I won’t be popular when I get home. Buggered if I know what’s happened to the others.’

  ‘We’ll never be ready for the demonstration on time at this rate. Here, get the other end of this.’

  They were in the process of unfolding a tablecloth the size of a small spinnaker when Cynthia arrived looking worried. One look at the state of Claude and Neville knew why. The man appeared on the verge of collapse, and was indeed being all but held up by Lucy.  Neville stared at them both, still clutching the tablecloth, then became aware Cynthia was saying something.

  ‘Isn’t that done yet?’ she barked. ‘Monsieur Lambert needs to inspect the equipment.’

  Pam spoke in a low voice which was nevertheless clearly audible to all.

  ‘Monsieur Lambert needs to lie down, if you ask me,’ she said.

  Cynthia glanced back at the wobbly chef, who sniffed twice, but was otherwise silent.

  ‘Oh, yes. Perhaps you would like a few minutes to recover from your journey. Lucy, why don’t you take Claude over to the farmhouse, perhaps a nice strong cup of tea…? I’ll let you know when we’re ready for you here.’

  Lucy smiled sweetly.

  ‘What a good idea. Come along, Claude. Soon have you right as rain,’ she said, steering him through the chairs. As she passed Neville her smile brightened a fraction.  ‘Lovely to see you again, Neville,’ she breathed, ‘Catch you later.’

  Neville gazed after her.

  ‘Oy,’ yelled Pam, ‘are we going to stand like this all bloody day?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he lowered the cloth, then turned to Cynthia. ‘My God, he looks like death. He’s bluer than ever.’

  ‘What are we going to do, Neville? He can’t go on stage in that condition.’

  ‘St John’s Ambulance will be thrilled. Bet they’ve never had to treat anything like that before.’

  ‘Really, I don’t see there is anything remotely funny about this situation,’ snapped Cynthia. ‘We have an expectant public arriving for the demonstration in less than an hour, and our star turn is not fit to be seen. I’m not sure he’s capable of standing up unsupported. What are we going to do?’ she wailed again.

  Neville did his best to sound reassuring. A tearful Cynthia was more than he could cope with. Much more.

  ‘Look, don’t let’s panic. Maybe he gets carsick. I’m sure if anyone can sort him out it’s Lucy. He’s in good hands.’

  Cynthia’s expression changed from feeble to frightening in an instant.

  ‘Yes, well of course you would know all about that, I suppose.’ She paused for a moment, seeming to take stock and pull herself together. ‘Right, no point in standing about. The Christians have gone abroad, urgent business apparently, and Miss Siddons has shingles, so it’s just us. Come along, we’ve work to do. Who on earth put this marquee up? Can anyone actually believe it is supposed to be at such an angle? And those two guy ropes aren’t even tight. Can no one do anything properly? And I have to say, inside is not looking much better. That trestle needs moving, for a start.’

  The three worked without pause for the next forty-five minutes. Neville spent most of the time biting his tongue as Cynthia yapped instructions and he and Pam did all the lifting and shifting. The heat outside was already considerable, turning the air inside the marquee into a canvas-flavoured fug. By the time Neville had struggled with a tabletop cooker, a sink unit, a small fridge, and boxes and boxes of essential items, he was a hot, sticky mess.  At last all that could be done had been done, and the plumber arrived to sort out the temporary water supply. 

  Pam slumped into a folding chair, which gave a little creak of protest.

  ‘I’m buggered,’ she announced. ‘I’m not doing another bloody thing until I get a long cold drink. How about it Cynthia?’

  ‘What? I’m afraid I have a million things to do. Someone has to check on Claude and make sure he’s ready for the demonstration. Oh, very well, I’ll have some drinks sent over.’

  Further conversation was rendered impossible at that moment due to the Young Farmers Club Steel Band limbering up with a few lively numbers.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Cynthia cried above the noise. ‘I said we should have had a string quartet. And they can’t possibly set up there, it’s entirely the wrong place,’ she charged off towards the unsuspecting teenagers with a shout of ‘What do you think you are doing!?’

  Neville sat heavily next to Pam.

  ‘This is going to be a shambles,’ he said. ‘I feel it in my bones.’ He stretched stiffly, joints clicking, ‘Make that my aching muscles. How did we let ourselves get talked into this in the first place?’

  ‘Our Cynthia can be very persuasive.’

  ‘That’s a generous word for it.’ He allowed himself a long, heartfelt sigh. ‘Actually, I did it because of Claude – he’s my hero, you know. Always admired his recipes. Inspired, some of them. Truly inspired. But look at the state of him. He’s like one of the living dead.’

  ‘He did look a bit peaky.’

  ‘Peaky! I tell you there’s sod all chance he’s going to be able to cook properly today. And as for judging the competition entries…’

  ‘Ah, worried he won’t appreciate your little creation, eh?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s capable of appreciating anything in that state. God, I hope Lucy’s managed to sort him out.’

  ‘Now’s your chance to find out,’ said Pam, standing up and nodding in the direction of Lucy, who had just breezed into the tent. ‘I’m off to find that drink. See you later.’

  Neville squinted up at Lucy as she stood in front of him, backlit by the sunshine,  more beautiful than ever.  He ran a hand through his sweat drenched hair, then wished he hadn’t as she held out an exquisitely manicured paw to him. He stood up quickly, taking her hand and giving it a damp squeeze.

  ‘Neville, it is so lovely to see you again.’ She lent forwards and gave him the lightest of kisses on his salty cheek. 

  Neville breathed in her glorious perfume. It was like oxygen to a drowning man after the fetid atmosphere of the marquee.

  ‘Lucy, I wasn’t sure you’d be here. It’s…it’s wonderful to see you again too.’ He found himself staring so tried to be business like. ‘So, how is the great man. Walking unaided yet?’

  ‘I’m afraid poor Claude is not feeling very well today.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine once he gets started. He’s terribly professional. A true perfectionist, like yourself, Neville.’

  She stepped a little closer.

  Neville struggled with an urge to grab the woman and kiss her, and an equally strong desire to run.

  ‘You know,’ Lucy began to fiddle with his lapel badge, ‘I believe you and I have some unfinished business.’

  A lazy grin slid round Neville’s face. A second later it was replaced by an expression of horror, as Sandra and Brian wandered into the tent, twins fidgeting beside them.

  ‘Sod it,’ said Neville. ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Lucy arched her perfectly plucked brows.

  ‘Oh no, not you. It’s my sister and her brood. I’m afraid they’re looking for me.’

  There was a deal of waving and smiling and cooey-ing.

  ‘Looks like they’ve found you,’ said Lucy.

  Neville attempted to get past her to head off his family, but he wasn’t quick enough.

  ‘Neville,’ Sandra insisted on a peck, ‘this all looks very nice.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were planning to come,’ he said, aware that Lucy still had her hand resting on his collar. He couldn’t quite bring himself to wriggle free.

  Brian gave Neville a conspiratorial wink.

  ‘Thought we’d come and see what you were up to. You know, check things out.’

  Neville tried to pretend his brother-in-law didn’t exist.

  ‘This is not a good moment really,’ he appealed to Sandra.

  ‘Say no more, Nev,’ Brain winked again and leered at Lucy.

  Sandra noticed his bizarre behaviour.

  ‘Brain, have you got something in your eye?’ She turned back to her brother. ‘Aren’t you going to introduced us, Neville?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Lucy, my sister Sandra, and her husband Brian, and the twins. This is Lucy Ferris-Brown. She is Claude Lambert’s personal assistant. Now, as I said, this is not a good moment. The demonstration is due to start. As you can see, people are beginning to take their seats, and…’

  ‘Don’t mind us,’ Sandra waved away his concerns. She gave Lucy her brightest smile, followed by a limp handshake. ‘It is so nice to meet you at last. Neville’s mentioned you, of course, and it’s always nice to put a face to the name, isn’t it?’

  Brain chipped in.

  ‘A name would have been a start. Plays his cards close to his chest, does our Nev.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucy gave Brian a dismissive look and refocused on Neville. ‘I like a man with a bit of mystery about him.’

  ‘I must say,’ Sandra was getting into her stride, ‘you’re not at all what I expected. When Neville said he’d met someone in the village, well, most people around here are not very glamorous, are they? Lovely people, of course, but…’

  ‘Mum, mum,’ for once a twin made a welcome interruption, ‘can we go on the bouncy castle now? Can we?’

  ‘Dad said we could,’ the second one pointed out, ‘he promised.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Brian, give them some money. Fifteen minutes, boys, I don’t want you both being sick all afternoon. Now, Lucy, you must promise you’ll come and visit us. Dinner one night perhaps, hmm?’

  Neville stepped in.

  ‘Lucy’s really terribly busy, Sandra…’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Lucy purred. ‘You can tell me all Neville’s little secrets.’

  Neville was spared the trouble of interrupting further as Cynthia arrived in full military commander mode.

  ‘There you are, Lucy. This is no time to stand around chatting,’ she wagged a dangerous looking finger, ‘Claude is asking for you. For heavens sake get him to come out of the house. Tell him the marquee is full and the audience is getting restless.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Lucy was unfazed by Cynthia’s brusqueness. ‘Catch you later, Neville.’ She gave a little wave as she left.

  Cynthia squinted at Sandra and Brian.

  ‘Have you got tickets?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m afraid not…’ said Sandra.

  ‘This is my sister and her husband,’ Neville explained.

  Cynthia softened immediately.

  ‘Oh, your family, Neville, darling boy, why didn’t you say so?’ She grasped first Sandra’s hand, then Brian’s. ‘Cynthia Danby. So nice to meet you. I expect Neville’s told you all about me.’

  ‘Well, I…’ Sandra was confused.

  ‘We’ve been seeing more and more of each other lately. So much to do for the fundraiser. Not that I’m complaining, of course. There is no one (I)? with whom I would rather spend my time. We are kindred spirits, your brother and I. We share a grand passion.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Brian. ‘But I thought…’

  Sandra trod heavily on his foot.

  ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Cynthia.’

  ‘Neville can be a naughty boy,’ Cynthia grabbed his arm. ‘He likes to have his little secrets. But we understand one another, don’t we, mon cher?’

  ‘Cooking,’ Neville explained. ‘Like me, Cynthia is very keen on cooking.’

  ‘That’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Sandra smiled ‘A shared interest keeps a couple happy. We’ve always found that, haven’t we, Brian?’

  ‘We have? Oh yes, we have,’ said Brian. 

  Cynthia gave one of her unnerving girlish giggles.

  ‘Neville, find your family some seats. There are one or two left at the back, I think. Then you really must excuse us. The demonstration is about to begin, and…’

  ‘Blimey,’ Brian was staring past her, ‘is that your wonder chef? Whatever he’s got I hope it’s not catching.’

  They turned to see a sickly looking Claude being propelled onto the stage by Lucy. He stood in front of the cheerfully clapping audience, blinking like a mole in a sunbeam, and teetering on unsteady feet.

  A growl of not-too-distant thunder expressed Neville’s thoughts.

 ‘My God,’ he said, ‘he looks even worse than he did before.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can bear to watch,’ wailed Cynthia.

  They stood, riveted by the unfolding disaster in front of them. The sky had darkened and now deafening thunder came nearer and grew louder, drowning out the pathetic little voice of the shambolic chef. Claude attempted to do what was expected of him, but it was obvious he was not up to it. He dropped things. He broke things. He muttered and mumbled and forgot what he was supposed to be doing. The longer it went on the more painful the experience became for everybody. The audience began to fidget. This embarrassing performance was not what they had come to see.

   Ten long minutes into the demonstration Claude suddenly froze. All movement ceased, and he appeared incapable of speech. He stared out of the side door of the marquee, open-mouthed.

  ‘Now what?’ hissed Neville.

  ‘Is he having some sort of seizure?’ Cynthia asked.

  Neville leant forward to try and see what it was that had had such an effect on the poor man. He could just make out Claude’s car in the car park. Next to it stood two particularly large men in sombre suits. They were peering into the car and trying the doors. 

  ‘I think someone’s trying to steal his car,’ he told Cynthia.

  ‘Never mind his car, look!’ she shrieked.

  Neville did look, just in time to see Claude fleeing out of the back of the tent, showing a surprising turn of speed for one apparently so near death.  In two seconds he was gone, leaving an empty stage, a crowd about to turn nasty, and a baffled Neville trying to placate a near hysterical Cynthia.

    It was only a short walk from Brook Terrace to Withy Hill Farm, but by the time they arrived, Fliss was already wishing she hadn’t talked Daniel into coming along.

  ‘Oh look,’ he pointed at the hot dog stall, ‘good, wholesome country food. I was wondering why we’d come.’

  Fliss glanced back at Rhian and Sam, (walking a safe distance from anyone who might be identified as a parent), then continued to do her best to ignore Daniel’s snide remarks.

  ‘I want to go to the flower tent,’ she told him, ‘see if I can pick up one or two things for the garden. Bound to be healthier plants than in a garden centre.’

  ‘Whatever, Babe. I’m just happy to soak up the atmosphere. Rural entertainment at its best. All the little village people coming together to bond over gladioli and strawberry jam.’

  ‘I think things may have moved on a bit since your grandmother’s day, Daniel. We may surprise you.’

  ‘”We”, eh? Gotta hand it to you, Fliss, you’re really getting into the whole village life experience.’

  ‘I don’t see the point in living here if you’re not prepared to try things. This sort of event is important. It stops people feeling isolated; builds up a sense of community. Anyway, I don’t want people thinking I’m just another Londoner who wants the space and fresh air, but isn’t prepared to contribute anything.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’

  ‘No, it’s different for you. You’re a part-timer.’

  ‘Oh, is that how you see me? Your part-time boyfriend? Hmm, better have a good look round and see who I might be job-sharing with. Fancy a bit of rustic muscle mid-week do you?’

  ‘Very funny, Dan. Almost as funny as all your other little jokes at everyone else’s expense.’

  ‘I only said the hog roast looked like a sacrifice at a black mass. And that the steel band appeared to be made up of care in the community rejects. And that…’

  ‘Yes, thank you, they didn’t make me laugh the first time I heard them.’

  ‘Come on, Babe, lighten up. Only having a bit of fun.’ 

  ‘Well do you have to be so snippy about everything?’

  ‘Sorree! If that’s how you feel, think I’ll leave you to it and check out the beer tent. That OK with you?’

  ‘You do whatever you want, Daniel, you always do.’

  ‘Right, I will then.’

  ‘Right, see you later.’

  Fliss watched him stomp off and wondered, not for the first time in the past few weeks, just whether or not her relationship with Daniel could have a future. All around her women in summer frocks and children clutching candy floss seemed to be genuinely happy and having a quietly normal good time. And here she was having a spat with the man she spent all week looking forward to seeing. Somehow, lately, the reality had not been living up to expectation.  She sighed, annoyed at having her mood altered in a downward direction. 

  ‘Mum,’ Rhian had caught her up, ‘can you bung us a few quid? I haven’t got much pocket money left.’

  ‘Good grief, Rhi, I only gave it to you yesterday. What do you do with it?’

  ‘Am I supposed to keep accounts? Look it’s really hot, I just wanted to get Sam and me a couple of frozen yoghurts, OK?’

  ‘Can you eat that?’ Fliss was surprised.

  ‘Filmore Dairies do a range with Soya milk,’ Sam explained. ‘They have realised the potential of the vegan market.’

  ‘Right, well, why not. Here you are. And that’s it, there’s no more, OK?’

  ‘OK, thanks Mum. Hey, look, there’s that bloke Sam was telling us about. The nerdy one from the planning office,’ she pointed to the entrance of the big marquee. Neville was standing in the doorway talking to a swarm of people. ‘You said you’d speak to him, Mum. Now’s your chance.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Go on, he’s right there. You promised.’

  Fliss took in the expression on her daughter’s face and realised she had been issued a challenge. She turned back to Sam.

  ‘What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Meatcher. Neville Meatcher.’

  ‘Right. Here goes,’ said Fliss, taking a deep breath.

  There were so many people trying to speak to the rather nervous looking man that for a minute Fliss doubted she was going to get to him. Then a whistling announcement over the Tannoy suggested ticket refunds might be available at the stage and the crowd moved as one body to the other end of the tent. Fliss saw her moment.

  ‘Mr Meatcher, I wonder if I could speak with you?’ her words were obscured by a teeth-jarring crash of thunder.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, you’ll have to queue with the other ticket holders to get your money back,’ he told her.

  ‘What? No, I didn’t have a ticket. I want to talk to you,’ she followed him inside the tent. ‘My name is Fliss Horton.’

  He studied her for a second or two.

  ‘Sorry, should that mean anything to me?’

  Fliss tried to respond but was drowned out again.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up,’ he yelled at her, ‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’

  Fliss raised her voice to a shout, and the words came out angrier than she had intended, though actually befitting her mood.

  ‘Planning! I want to know what’s going on about the planning applications here at Withy Hill Farm!  I hear you’re the man in charge.’

  ‘First, I am not in charge of planning applications!’ he bellowed back. ‘Second, even if I were I wouldn’t discuss it with a complete stranger who has no interest in the project, and third,’ he flinched as lightning bleached the sky for an instant, ‘third, this is neither the time, nor the place,’ the thunder boomed once more, ‘nor the sodding weather in which to discuss such matters. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a monumental cock up to try to sort out!’

  ‘Wait a minute! There’s no need to be so bloody rude. Perhaps you don’t want to talk about it because you’ve got something to hide!’

  ‘What? Look, Mrs Norton…’

  ‘Horton!’

  ‘Quite. I assure you…’

  But the weather Gods had other ideas. At last the sagging clouds overhead could carry their load no more. With an apocryphal rumble and ear-splitting crack of lightning the rain came down. It rained as if there had been years of drought, and as if it might not get a chance to rain ever again. The water speared through the sticky air, slicing it’s way to the ground with alarming force.  A force that was more than a match for the hastily and inexpertly erected marquee.  Outside, people ran for their cars, or for the shelter of the barns. Inside, aggrieved ticket holders forgot about their £3.50 and fled. Above them the canvas sagged and stretched. Around them the poles wobbled and the ropes creaked. In less than a minute the tent had emptied, save for Neville and Fliss standing in the middle of the chairs, and Cynthia on stage like a tragic heroine in a little known opera.

  ‘I think we should continue our conversation somewhere else,’ Neville shouted.

  Fliss nodded, not attempting to speak further above the cacophony of the storm and the alarming groans of the marquee. She turned on her heel, causing her hair to spin round behind her. Unfortunately, she had been standing closer to Neville than she had realised, and her hair caught in his name badge, at the precise moment he chose to try and exit in the opposite direction.

  ‘Ouch!’ Fliss screamed. ‘Wait a minute!’

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing, woman? Keep still.’

  Fliss had little choice but to do as she was told. For a second it seemed the structure of the tent would hold, but then the creaking of the ropes and the listing of the poles increased, and it was clear collapse was imminent.

  ‘It’s no use, we’ve got to get out!’ she yelled, grabbing Neville’s hand and hauling him after her through the snagging rows of chairs. Behind them she could hear shrieking from the stage as the roof came in. She made for the exit, but Neville tripped and brought them both heavily to the floor.

  It occurred to Fliss, as she lay half drowned on the soaking ground, a strange man and a large tent on top of her, that she had had better days. After much struggling and floundering, and a little help from a couple outside, she and Neville were released from the tangle of canvas and rope. Still joined by Fliss’s hair they lay, stunned, on the grass, spluttering as the rain continued to drench them.

  ‘Neville?’ A woman’s voice broke through Fliss’s thoughts.

  ‘It’s all right, Sandra, don’t fuss, we’re fine,’ said Neville.

  Fliss smiled feebly up at the worried looking woman, who tried to get them help.

  ‘Don’t just stand there, Brian,’ she yapped, ‘do something.’

  ‘All under control,’ said Brian, reaching down and taking Fliss’s hand. 

  Of necessity, Neville hauled himself to his feet too, holding on to Fliss to prevent her losing a large chunk of hair.

  Brian’s grin could be seen even through the power-shower of water that coursed over his face. ‘Well, Nev, a redhead too. The words ‘dark’ and ‘horse’ spring to mind, you old devil, you. I am impressed.’ 

  Fliss turned to look at the saturated, mud-splattered, red-faced, bedraggled creature to which she was so annoyingly attached and saw very, very little to be impressed by.

To be continued…

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Nine appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Eight

A tale of cooks, crooks and chooks.

CHAPTER NINE

  Fliss walked purposefully along the pot-holed pavement, carrying the increasingly heavy box. Rhian and Sam trailed behind her, their bad moods slowing them down.  They were now near enough in the middle of the sizeable housing estate, which was cruelly named Sunny Meadow. There was neither sun nor meadow.  Teenagers roamed in packs like feral dogs. Smaller children swung on the remains of garden gates.  Two of the pollarded plane trees were blackened stumps, the remainder looked scarred and sickly.

  Fliss squinted at the number on the door in front of them.

  ‘Forty-eight. Is this it, Sam?’

  Sam nodded.

  Fliss put the box down and knocked on the door. After some time it was opened six inches, chain firmly in place. A large, middle-aged, male face looked out.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Fliss, a little too brightly. 

  ‘Not today!’ growled the face before slamming the door.

  Fliss tried again.

  ‘No, wait. I’m not selling anything.’ There was no reply so she pressed on, ‘I, um, I’ve got something here which I believe belongs to you. You do keep one or two chickens, don’t you?’

  The door inched open once more.

  Fliss pointed at the box.

  ‘You see, my daughter and her friend, well, they’re very fond of animals, and they were a little concerned that maybe this, er, this hen wasn’t, well, very happy in her surroundings. Of course, I’m sure you know all about keeping chickens. Anyway, I’m afraid the girls got a bit carried away and sort of rescued the bird. Not that she needed rescuing.’

  The face at last shifted his glare from Fliss to the box.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve talked about it, and the girls have come to realise that what they did was wrong. So we’ve brought it back. I am sorry if you were worried. You know how impulsive teenagers can be.’ She tried a weak smile.

  The door closed again. There was a rattling before it opened once more. The heavy man stepped forward with surprising speed, snatched up the box, and disappeared inside without a word.

  Fliss found herself staring at the re-slammed door. She turned to the girls.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Rhian’s scowl was entrenched.

  ‘We’ve done the right thing,’ said Fliss.

  ‘He didn’t even say thank you for bringing her back, ignorant git. You didn’t see the state of the place he’s keeping those chickens. You’ve sent the poor thing back to die of some terrible disease.’

  ‘Come on,’ Fliss steered the girls back the way they had come, ‘we’ve already had this argument. And this is not the place to discuss it further.’

  They walked in silence, the argument following overhead. Not that there was anything much new to be said – they had spent a long and exhausting evening hammering things out the night before. Even when Rhian had announced she was going to become a vegan like Sam, Fliss had been unable to be pleased. She had been a vegetarian for years, and her daughter had always refused to give up meat. Now she was friends with someone who talked her into breaking into people’s garden sheds when she should have been at school, and suddenly she wanted to live on Soya milk and sunflower seeds.

  It wasn’t until they were all on the bus heading out of Barnchester in the direction of Nettlecombe that Fliss tried once again to get Rhian to talk about the wrongs of chicken-napping.

  ‘I know you feel very strongly about what you did, both of you,’ she said, ‘but you must see that you can’t simply go around stealing things.’

  ‘Liberating,’ Sam corrected her.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Forty-Eight Sunny Meadows might not have seen it quite like that.’

  ‘Sod the old fart.’

  ‘Rhian, I was hoping you were going to take a more adult approach to this. Anyway, the conditions couldn’t have been that bad – look how fat that chicken was. She must have been well-fed, at least.’

  ‘That, Mrs Horton,’ said Sam, ‘is because she was a table bird.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Poultry bred for eating. That’s what it’s called. The reason she was so obese is that she had been stuffed with toxic amounts of unsuitable food to put more meat on her. Her housing was not the main issue here.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do see that’s not very nice, but there are ways of registering your protest. Ways that don’t involve breaking the law.’

  ‘Right, Mum, like we could have talked to the creep and he’d have put her on the Atkins diet. I don’t think so.’

  ‘You could have talked to me. We could have come up with something together.’

  Both girls gave Fliss a look of such scorn that she started to blush.

  ‘I’d like to help. Surely you know that? If there’s something that matters to you so much I want to know about it. To be involved. Just occasionally can’t you forget I’m your mother, Rhi, and see me as a human being? If nothing else I might be useful, hmm? Might be able to do something?’

  ‘Do something?’ Rhian gave a derisive little laugh. ‘You work at Withy Hill Farm, for that creep Christian. It’s a chicken farm, in case you hadn’t noticed. You’d hardly be my first choice of someone to help liberate exploited animals.’

  Fliss shifted uncomfortably on the worn seat.

  ‘Withy Hill has a reputation for looking after its livestock,’ she said, though the words lacked conviction. Since discovering the plans for the laboratory and the truth about the farm’s parent company Fliss had been finding it increasingly difficult to justify earning money at the place.

  Sam appeared to read her thoughts.

  ‘As a matter of fact, my parents were discussing Withy Hill only the other night,’ she said. ‘Information has reached them that there are plans for new buildings on the site.’

  ‘How did you know about that?’ Fliss asked.

  ‘Mum, do you mean to say you knew about this?’ Rhian rounded on her.

  Sam went on. ‘All local planning applications are subject to public scrutiny, although some notices are not posted as prominently as they should be. As part of our family policy of endeavouring to be guardians of our environment we make it our business to monitor all new construction projects in the area.’

  ‘Do you know what they’re building?’ Fliss asked.

  ‘Our information is not that detailed,’ Sam told her. ‘However, given the nature and usual business of the conglomerate to which the farm belongs, we have reason to suspect they may be planning a research laboratory.’

  ‘Did you know about this, Mum? Did you?’ Rhian demanded.

  Fliss hesitated just a fraction of a second too long before answering.

  ‘Well, not exactly…’

  ‘How could you! How could you know what they were up to and still be a part of the place?’

  ‘Now wait a minute. First, we don’t know exactly what they are going to do with the new building – they could be developing new types of chicken feed for all we know. Second, maybe they won’t get permission to build. Nothing has been decided.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Sam agreed, ‘but it can only be a matter of time.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The person who works at the planning office and oversees applications like this is known to us. He is also known to have attended meetings at Withy Hill, at night time. It’s obvious there is collusion.’ She turned to Fliss. ‘ As a matter of fact, he lives in your village.’

  ‘In Nettlecombe? Really? Well, who is he?’

  ‘His name is Neville Meatcher. He lives in the flat above the Post Office.’

  ‘I know which one he is,’ cried Rhian, ‘I’ve seen him coming out of the front door. You know, Mum, the anorak on the battered bike.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think I know who you mean. But why would he…’

  ‘Why would anyone, Mrs Horton?’ Sam’s voice was grave as she turned to gaze out of the window. ‘They do say every man has his price.’

  ‘Mum, you could talk to him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on, it’d be easy to ‘bump into’ him – he only lives across the road,’ Rhian’s mouth was setting in that thin determined line Fliss dreaded. ‘You said you wanted to be involved. You said you wanted to help. OK. Prove it.’

  Rose cooked, as Baby sat happily in his bouncy chair, watching. It was nearly six o’clock and Ryan would be home soon. He would be tired and hungry and expect his tea.  She chopped carrots and added them to the mince simmering on the hob. Shepherd’s pie was always well received. Which meant he wouldn’t complain or make nasty remarks. Rose’s own small salad was already waiting in the fridge.

  She smiled at Baby. He didn’t seem a bit tired after the exciting events of the previous day. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window and bounced off the shiny silver cup on the dresser. Rose couldn’t resist pausing to read the inscription one more time.

   Most Beautiful Babe 

  She still couldn’t believe they had actually won the competition. Of course, she knew Baby was the most scrumptious child on the planet, but she had been so unprepared for the size of the event. All those people. All those cameras. And everybody else with beautiful shawls and rugs and balloons and ribbons and all sorts, and Baby sitting on that plain table with his nothing but his blue rabbit. The judges had liked that, they had told her so. Said something about simplicity, and the essence of being an infant, whatever that meant. And as if winning hadn’t been enough – the cup, the cheering, the enormous amount of prize money, the jostling photographers – the lady from the modelling agency had been so nice. Said such lovely things about Baby. Told Rose he had an exciting career ahead of him.

  The rumble of the Subaru in the driveway shook Rose from her thoughts and sent her back to her cooking. 

  Ryan called from the hallway.

  ‘Rose, tea ready yet?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ll have a shower then,’ he told her.

  Rose waited until she could hear the power shower working, then took down a small, unlabelled jar from the back of the herb shelf. She shook a small quantity of the curly, green leaves onto a board and chopped carefully. The more she chopped, the less they resembled the unfurling ferns by the compost heap. When they were fine as pixie dust she measured half a level teaspoon into the mince and stirred well. Three good shakes of Worcester sauce should cover any unfamiliar taste.

  Rose found herself humming as she covered the meat with mashed potato and then placed the dish beneath the grill to brown.

  A short time later the three of them were seated at their table, each with their own suppers. Rose nibbled her salad, Baby yummed down creamed carrots, and Ryan shovelled in the shepherd’s pie. 

  ‘I’ve got to leave early tomorrow morning,’ he told her through a mouthful of mash, ‘got to take the car in to be checked.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rose. ‘Is there something wrong with it?’

  ‘No, I just like getting up at the crack of sparrow sodding fart and wasting my time at the garage. Of course there’s something wrong with it.’

  ‘Oh dear. Is it serious?’

  Ryan did not answer straight away. He swigged at his bottle of lager for a moment.

  ‘Dunno,’ he said at last. ‘Could be. I can’t get to the bottom of it, but something’s got to be done. Can’t drive around with that…’ he glanced at Rose. ‘Never mind. You don’t understand about cars.’

  Rose nodded and helped baby to some water from his beaker.

  Ryan looked at his son, as he sometimes did.

  ‘So, a winner, eh? First bloody prize. That’s my boy.’

  He punched Baby lightly on the shoulder in a rare gesture of playfulness.

  ‘Mind you, not sure I like you two going up to London like that.’

  ‘I did tell you…’

  ‘You told me he was in the finals, didn’t say where, though, did you? Like to keep your little secrets, don’t you, eh?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’

  ‘Of course I’m interested – I’m paying for the sodding train tickets, aren’t I? Or did the organisers cough up for your expenses? I don’t think so.’ He turned to look at the cup, then back to Rose. ‘What about the prize money, anyway? That should cover the train fares. How much was it?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ Rose began to go a little pink.

  ‘No, as it happens, you did not say. Another of your secrets. Come on, let’s have it.’

  Rose walked over to the drawer in the dresser and pulled out a slim envelope. Slowly, without meeting his eye, she handed it to Ryan. 

  He took out the contents.

  ‘Vouchers!’ he spat the word. ‘Where’s the real money? What good are sodding vouchers to me?’

  ‘They are for that big department store in Bournemouth. They sell the shirts you like, you know, the ones with the button-down collars. And shoes. They have expensive shoes too,’ she told him.

  ‘Hmm. I suppose you might be right. Could do with some new gear. Here you go, lad,’ he handed one to Baby, ‘you did all the hard work. You get yourself something. Bet they have a toy department. Get yourself a…a train, yeah,’ he put the rest of the vouchers in his pocket and went back to his food. ‘Buy the kid a train.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ Rose waited, but it seemed the subject was closed, so she sat down again and stopped Baby eating his voucher.

  Ryan held up a forkful of meat.

  ‘You put something in this?’

  ‘What?’ Rose stiffened in her chair.

  ‘Something different? It tastes different.’

  Rose froze for a few seconds, not daring to look at Ryan. She busied herself wiping Baby’s face.

  ‘Sage,’ she said, ‘I put sage in it, that’s all.’

  Ryan shrugged.

  ‘Tastes OK,’ he said, clearing his plate, before leaning back in his chair and letting out a long, loud belch.

  By seven o’clock Neville had reduced his sister’s orderly little kitchen to something resembling a crime scene. There was not a clear inch of work surface to be seen, and every pan, jug, mug, pot and container seemed to be in use. The windows were opaque with steam, and the humidity in the room was well beyond comfortable.

   ‘For pity’s sake, Neville,’ said Sandra, coming in from the garden, ‘open a window before you pass out. There’s no air in here.’

  ‘What? Oh, I hadn’t noticed. I’m too busy to worry about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Clearly. I’ve never seen such a mess.’ She moved towards the sink and reached for the rubber gloves.

  ‘Oh don’t bother with that now, Sandra. I’ll clear up later.’ Neville carefully spooned the creamy pudding mixture into a pastry case, tongue between teeth as he tried to remain focused on the task in hand.

  ‘It won’t take a minute. Don’t worry, I won’t interfere.’

  Neville didn’t reply. He was struggling with the unfamiliar kitchen, inferior gadgets, a woefully inadequate store cupboard, constant interruptions and irritating questions from the twins, and well-meaning fussing from Sandra.  Still, he had known it would be like this, and he had made up his mind to deal with the difficulties. A lot was at stake. He was fairly sure he had, at last, perfected the Daryole recipe, but he needed to try it out on someone before the competition. It had been galling to realise the only potential guinea pigs were Sandra, Brian, and the boys. A less discerning collection of palettes it would be hard to find. But who else could he ask? Cynthia would no doubt have leapt at the opportunity, but would also have read all sorts of inaccurate things into the invitation. The possible consequences were not worth the risk. There was no one at work whom Neville liked enough to invite to dinner, however desperate he was. He briefly flirted with the idea of contacting Lucy, but his nerve failed him. And so he found himself in Sandra’s kitchen, battling to do his recipe justice, ready to submit to the judgements of two adults who’s idea of haute cuisine was the local Harvester, and two children who spent more time dropping food than eating it. 

  Brian appeared in the kitchen carrying two bottles of wine.

  ‘Now then, chef, red or white?’ he asked.

  Neville winced. What the choice actually consisted of was something claiming to be a Bulgarian Bordeaux, or a supermarket white so sweet it would make his teeth ache.

  ‘All taken care of, Brian. I’ve put a couple of bottles of Pinot Noir in the fridge. Thanks, all the same.’

  Neville stooped to slide the precious pudding into the oven, gently closed the door, checked his watch, then allowed himself a sigh of relief.

  ‘Right you are,’ said Brian. ‘What time’s kick off, then?’

  ‘Dinner should be ready in five minutes.’

  ‘OK. I’ll drag the twins to the table. Boys!’ he headed out into the garden in search of his children.

  There was much whining and shouting and forcible washing of hands and demands for lemonade and chips and television but finally everyone was seated at the fine, reproduction Regency table in the dining room.

  ‘Well,’ smiled Sandra, ‘isn’t this lovely, a delicious meal cooked for us by Uncle Neville.’

  The twins were unconvinced.

  ‘What is it?’ asked one.

  ‘I don’t like that,’ said the other.

  ‘The main course,’ Neville told them ‘is a simple steak and kidney casserole…’

  ‘Urgh!’

  ‘Don’t like kidneys!’

  ‘…which is a suitably traditional recipe to have before the rather special pudding I’ve prepared. There are green beans, carrots, and minted new potatoes.’

  ‘Don’t want beans!’

  ‘Don’t like carrots!’

  ‘Now boys,’ Sandra reached for their plates, ‘I’m sure it will all be very tasty. Just try a little.’ She spooned out minuscule portions.

  ‘That’s too much!’

  ‘Don’t like it.’

  Neville’s own appetite began to dwindle.

  Sandra continued to cajole.

  ‘Just give it a try, boys, Uncle Neville’s gone to so much trouble.’

  The boys sniffed their plates suspiciously.

  ‘Don’t like it,’ said one.

  ‘Smells disgusting,’ said the other.

  ‘That’s enough!’ boomed Brian, slamming his hand down hard on the table. ‘Sit still, be quiet, and eat!’

  Two mouths opened to protest. He cut them short.

  ‘Or there will be no paddling pool in the garden this afternoon and you can spend the rest of the day tidying your bedrooms instead. I mean it. Now, eat!’ He banged the table once more.

  The tense silence that followed was punctuated by the occasional sniff.

  ‘Really, Brian,’ Sandra gave him a look.

  Brian continued as if barking at his children and bullying them into compliance was a regular happening not worthy of mention.

  ‘Nev, or should I say, Chef, this looks fantastic. Real food. None of that two bits of lettuce and a twig of something with a dollop of goo. Proper stuff. Good man.’ He helped himself to large quantities of everything.

  ‘Mmmm,’ agreed Sandra, ‘this is delicious, Neville. And your beans stay so green, how do you do that? I always have trouble there.’

  Brain laughed.

  ‘She’s not kidding, Nev. Poor things look like they’ve been through a boil wash by the time Sandra’s finished with them.’

  Neville saw his sister shoot Brian a glance of such fury that for a moment he was whisked back to childhood squabbles. Which Sandra had always won. Easily.

  He tried to concentrate on his meal.

  ‘It’s all simple stuff, really,’ he told them. ‘It’s the pudding that’s new. That’s what I’d really like your opinion on.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Brian shook enough salt over his food to preserve it through winter, ‘the mysterious competition entry. Can’t wait to get stuck in to that. Pass the mustard, would you?’

  Neville watched Brain obliterate any original flavour from his casserole, and looked on forlornly as Sandra avoided the kidneys and washed every mouthful down with diet tonic water. The boys squirmed on their seats emitting little squeaks and nibbling painfully at the odd carrot. Things did not look good for the pudding.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Sandra dabbed at her lips with a Monet print paper napkin, ‘if you’d heard from Wendy at all.’

  ‘Wendy?’ Neville was at a loss.

  Sandra tutted. ‘You know who I mean. You met her here. Just a few weeks ago. I thought she might have phoned. Or you might have called her.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Neville shook his head. ‘Not really my type, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No? Pity. Such a nice girl. We liked her, didn’t we Brian?’

  ‘Certainly did. Well, bits of her, anyway, eh Nev?’ he laughed, shoulders shaking, at his own little joke.

  The twins, baffled, but no doubt relieved to see their father’s humour improve, laughed too.

  ‘Really, Brian. Not in front…’ Sandra twitched her head in the direction of the children. ‘Anyway, I’m sure Neville has interests in a possible new girlfriend other than just her…well. I  mean, he wants someone he can get on with. Someone pretty. Someone nice to be around. Someone to talk to.’

  ‘Perhaps I should buy a budgie,’ said Neville.

  ‘Oh, you always sell yourself short,’ she wagged an admonishing knife at him, ‘that’s always been your trouble. I’m sure there are lots of nice girls out there who would love to meet someone like you. You just need to make the effort to meet them, that’s all.’

  ‘Look, it’s kind of you to take such an interest in my personal life, but really, there is no need.’

  Brian passed the wine in Neville’s direction.

  ‘Why’s that then, Nev? Taken a vow of chastity, have we? Or is it miles on the clock, eh? Taking its toll on the old libido? It’s creeping up on all of us, you know, middle age.’

  There were days when Neville felt middle age had indeed crept up on him, mugged him, and left him for dead in a dark alley. Even so, he disliked Brian making such jokes at his expense. After all, he couldn’t imagine Sandra making heavy demands on her husband in their Scandinavian style bedroom.

  ‘I say there’s no need,’ he told them, ‘because that position is filled.’

  Four astonished faces turned to stare at Neville. He attempted to ignore them and get on with his plateful.

  Sandra was the first to speak.

  ‘You mean, you’ve got a girlfriend?’

  ‘I don’t see why you should be so amazed. You’ve just said yourself, lots of women would consider me a good catch.’ He sipped his wine and gave a nonchalant shrug.  ‘You were right,’ he said, allowing himself a little smile at the effect of his pretence.

  ‘That’s my boy!’ cried Brian, laughing again. ‘Well, this is a turn up. What’s she like, this secret woman of yours?’

  ‘Now, Brian,’ Sandra held up a hand as if halting traffic, ‘I’m sure Neville will tell us all about her in his own good time.’

  There was an expectant silence.  Neville was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of the idea of inventing a girlfriend He ineffectually sought to change the subject.

  ‘Oh, she’s not anyone you know. More beans, Brian?’

  ‘Someone from work, perhaps?’ suggested Sandra.

  ‘Work? No, not from work?’

  ‘Not been dabbling in a bit of Internet dating, have you, brother-in-law? Loitering in the odd chat room or two, maybe?’

  ‘I most certainly have not,’ Neville drained his glass. ‘She’s someone I met in the village, that’s all.’

  The more Neville tried to knock the conversation on the head, the more uncontrollable it became.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Sandra nodded. ‘You did tell me you were on the committee, for the recipe competition and so on. How lovely. Someone living in the village with the same interests as you. Couldn’t be better.’

   ‘Now, I didn’t say she actually lived in the village…’

  Brian was unstoppable.

  ‘When do we get to meet her, then?’ he helped himself to the last of the bottle of wine. ‘Can’t keep her hidden away for ever, you know.’

  ‘I’m not hiding her.’  Neville pulled at his collar which was beginning to feel unusually tight. ‘She’s a very busy woman, that’s all. Doesn’t have much time for socialising.’

  Brian was impressed.

  ‘A career girl?’ he let out a low whistle, ‘good move, Nev. Expensive creatures to keep, women.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘What?’ Neville tried not to look as if this were an unreasonable question. ‘Her name, yes well, good grief,’ he studied his watch pointedly, ‘look at the time. Must rescue the pudding. Don’t want to overcook it. Was the whole point of the meal, after all.’ 

  He stood up in an effort to flee to the kitchen, but Sandra caught hold of his sleeve.  She looked up at him dewy eyed, and when she spoke her words were breathless.

  ‘Oh Neville, I’m so happy for you,’ she squeaked.

  He smiled wanly, wriggled free of her grasp, and dashed for the kitchen. 

  The smaller twin spoke in a stage whisper, his words bringing a tiny sob from his mother.

  ‘Dad, is Uncle Neville getting married?’

to be continued…

The post Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Eight appeared first on Paula Brackston.

Nettlecombe Hatchet: Part Seven

Buff Orpington and Sussex Light

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rose waited until Baby was properly asleep before she changed. She had spent time earlier in the day selecting suitable clothes. Now she struggled into an old pair of dark grey jogging pants and slipped on a black hoodie of Ryan’s. She pulled the hood up and closed the zip to her chin. She tiptoed into Baby’s room to check on him one more time before going downstairs.

   In the sitting room she positioned the portable part of the baby alarm beside the telephone. Next she retrieved Ryan’s mobile from behind the gas fire where she had hidden it. With great care she switched it on and dialled her own number. When the house phone rang she answered it at once, checked the connection, then placed the receiver on the table next to the baby monitor. She picked up the cotton wool pad she had ready and taped it over the keypad of the mobile to safeguard against pressing some crucial button by mistake.

  At the front door she paused, hand on the latch, and looked anxiously up the stairs. No sound came from Baby’s room, and he rarely woke in the evenings, but still she hesitated at the idea of leaving him, even for twenty minutes. But go she must. Her mind was made up. The mobile would allow her to listen in via the baby monitor, and she could be home again in less than ten minutes if necessary. She picked up her small bag of things she would need later, then left quietly.

  Outside the air was thick with the promise of thunder. At nearly ten o’clock summer dusk was darkening to night. Rose walked briskly, head down, skirting the green so as to be less noticeable. She turned left past Brook Terrace, then climbed the stile onto the footpath that would take her across the meadows.  The field was level and recently cropped by cattle. Rose knew the route well from childhood. The path headed west towards the neighbouring village of Mile Compton, and emerged on the lane directly opposite the gravel drive of Holme View.

  Rose’s breath became ragged as she pressed on. She was unaccustomed to such a brisk pace but didn’t want to be away from Baby a moment longer than was absolutely necessary.

  In a few short minutes she arrived at the house. From the front it appeared uninhabited, but as Rose crept past the For Sale sign and around to the back she could see light thrown down through a rear bedroom window. Fortunately, Ryan’s Impreza was parked tight against the house and so remained in helpful darkness.

  Rose paused to look up at the open window. Voices, unclear but identifiable, could be heard. The occasional laugh. A swear word. A giggle. In the background some music – slow and smoochy.

  At that moment a figure appeared at the window. It was Ryan, wearing only his boxer shorts. The designer ones he had recently treated himself to. Rose froze, breath held. Ryan threw out a cigarette stub, declared the night sticky as you like, then disappeared back into the room.

  Rose breathed again, then turned her attention to Ryan’s beloved car.  She took the spare keys from her bag, pointed them at the car, and squeezed. The car chirruped and flashed once, then was mercifully silent again. Rose carefully opened the driver’s door. There were two sunken screws on the underneath of the seat which secured a small panel. These she removed to expose the workings of the seat-heating system. Next she pulled from her bag a small plastic tub. Even though the prawn and crab mix was fresh it was already beginning to smell. She tipped the fish into the inside of the seat, taking care not to spill any on the floor, then replaced the panel.

  The sounds from the bedroom had taken on a more basic and animal nature by now. Rose’s mouth set in a determined line. She reached across the dashboard and shone her torch into the demisting vent at the bottom of the windscreen. From her bag she took the pea-sized bead she had removed from one of Baby’s rattles. She dropped it into the vent, listening to it bounce through its bagatelle journey to the lowest point possible.

  She was in the process of putting away her things when a muffled sound made her heart thump and milk surge through her breasts. She clamped the mobile phone to her ear. Baby stirred, murmured, belched lightly, sighed, then slept quietly once more.

  Rose moved quickly now. She was able to firmly close the door and reset the alarm without fear of being heard, the noises from the bedroom assuring her that Ryan’s attention was elsewhere.

  She pulled the hood of her top tight over her head and hurried away without bothering to glance up at the bedroom window. Once on the footpath she risked using her torch, and was able to return to happily sleeping Baby in no time at all.

  The threatened thunderstorms of the night before had not yet materialised, and in Neville’s flat the sultry heat of the day outside was merging with the steamy heat of the cooking inside, producing an unpleasant level of humidity. Even Cilla had decamped to the relative cool of the bedroom. Neville, however, was a man with a mission, and as such barely noticed his uncomfortable working conditions.

  ‘Now let’s see, “For the Daryole,’ he read, ‘take marrow, cloves, mace, ginger and wine and let it boil and add some cream …” hmm. Well, we’re doing without the marrow, and let’s try nutmeg proper. Sod it, where did I put my grater?’

  As he gathered ingredients and weighed and measured and mixed he hummed along to Purcell’s Fairy Queen, being the best he could do in the way of medieval music. It was the only time Neville ever hummed – when he was cooking, and when it was going well. He was excited at the prospect of recreating a centuries old dish à la Meatcher, and was secretly confident about his chances in the fundraiser recipe competition. The thought of being included in one of Claude Lambert’s books was, for him, the ultimate motivation.  He had barely started assembling his new pudding, however, when he was interrupted by the buzzing of his doorbell.

  ‘What now?’ he wiped his hands and stomped crossly down the stairs to the front door. His mood was not improved by the sight of Cynthia in an alarming summer dress.

  ‘Neville, my dear boy, I am so relieved to find you alive and well.’

  She pushed past him and thudded up the stairs before he had a chance to stop her.

  ‘Of course I’m alive, why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I haven’t been able to raise you on the telephone, either here or at your office. They said you were busy there, naturally, but as time went by I began to wonder if they were not hiding some terrible truth. I simply had to come and seek you out.’

  ‘Your concern is touching, Cynthia, but as you can see I am in one piece…’

  ‘I think,’ Cynthia adopted a coquettish tone and wagged a playful finger at him, ‘that you have been a naughty boy, Neville.’

  ‘Naughty?’

  ‘Why yes, you haven’t been returning my calls. I think you’ve been playing games with little Cynthia.’

  Neville struggled to marry the words ‘little’ and ‘Cynthia’.

  ‘I think,’ she went on, a coy smile rearranging her too pink lipstick, ‘that you wanted me to come and find you. Is that so, Neville?’ She leaned back a little against the kitchen table and toyed with her pearls.

  It was difficult not to draw comparisons between the solid, ruddy-cheeked woman in front of Neville, and the luscious, peachy-skinned girl who had stood in the same spot only a few days before. It was not a fair contest.

  ‘Look,’ said Neville,’ I’m sorry if I haven’t called, I have been very busy at work. And at home, as you can see.’ He gestured towards the paraphernalia about them, then regretted doing so.

  ‘Oh, Neville, are you working on your entry for the fundraiser? How wonderful. Let me see what you’re doing. Do tell me what it’s going to be.’ She turned and began peering into bowls.

  ‘I’d really rather not discuss it at this stage,’ Neville forced himself between her and the table.

  ‘Oh, is it a secret?’ Cynthia made no attempt to take the hint and move back.

  ‘Not a secret, just, well, I’m still experimenting ,’ Neville mustered a smile and took Cynthia’s arm, turning her gently towards the sitting room . ‘Why don’t you sit down for a minute. I’ll make some tea.’ Much as he wanted rid of the woman, Neville had first to deal with the immediate problem of getting her away from his Daryole. She was right about him being secretive. He most certainly did not want anyone, especially Cynthia, getting a sneak preview of his creation. 

  Cynthia was more than willing to take to the sofa.

  ‘This is cosy,’ she said, stroking the old leather and leaning back in a relaxed fashion. ‘You make some tea, Neville, then hurry back and tell me what you’re dreaming up to impress Monsieur Lambert.’

  As Neville clattered about with cups and saucers back in the kitchen he began to feel more and more trapped. He so wanted to be perfecting his recipe, and he so did not want to be having tea with Cynthia, who already looked as if she had settled onto his sofa for the rest of the day. He carried the tray of tea things in and set it on the coffee table.

  ‘Shall I be mother?’ Cynthia didn’t wait for a reply, but sat forward and arranged the cups.  As she shifted position her petunia-patterned dress gaped dangerously at the front, displaying more than was sensible in the way of vintage cleavage.

  Neville hesitated before sitting down next to her. Opposite would have left him nowhere to look other than her startling bosom.

  ‘Now,’ Cynthia patted his knee as she handed him his tea, ‘at least give me a clue or too. Is it a meat dish? Something with fish, perhaps?’

  ‘All I’m prepared to say at this stage is that it is a pudding.’

  ‘A pudding! Oh, how marvellous. I can’t wait. I myself toyed with the idea of something based on chocolate, but I decided against. Too much temptation. I’d be forever picking and nibbling while I tried it out, and a girl has to look after her figure, you know.’ She gave a little laugh.

  Neville swigged his tea.

  ‘Anyway,’ Cynthia went on, ‘the reason I’ve been trying so urgently to contact you this week is that I have news. There’s to be an extraordinary meeting of NHEC, next week. Thursday evening, up at Withy Hill Farm. I know you’ll be as excited as I am…Claude himself has promised to attend. Isn’t that wonderful?’

  ‘Really? He’s really coming to the meeting?’ Neville was impressed. 

  ‘He wants to meet all the key players in the event. Check that we’re doing a good job, I shouldn’t wonder. I must say I’m looking forward to it. Can I count on you to be there?’

  ‘Cynthia, wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.’

  ‘Splendid. Now, one lump or two?’

  The back garden of number 3 Brook Terrace shimmered in the afternoon heat. The sun’s rays blasted through the hazy air, stripped of their brilliance, but losing none of their warmth. Fliss stretched out on her threadbare lounger. It wasn’t perfect sunbathing weather, but she was content to be outside, lying down, and with the prospect of two cleaning-free days ahead of her. The musical sound of ice cubes in a long drink tempted her to open one eye.

  ‘Here you are, my gorgeousness,’ Daniel handed her a brimming glass, ‘one expertly assembled, medium strength, maximum refreshment guaranteed, Pimms. Very healthy – more fruit than you could shake a stick at.’ He sat down on the wooden deck-chair next to her.  

  ‘Mmm, thanks Dan.’ She sipped her drink and savoured the moment. The weekend was going well. Daniel had, as promised, arrived early enough the previous evening to take her out to dinner. They had enjoyed a delicious meal at the Thai restaurant in Barnchester, and an equally delectable night of sex, followed by a rare lie-in. Even Rhian had been uncharacteristically mellow.  Moments such as these gave Fliss hope that maybe, just maybe, she and Daniel had a workable relationship, and that one day the three of them could actually amount to a family of some sort.  She sat up and smiled at her lover.

 ‘Not so bad is it, this weekend country retreat routine?’

 ‘Can’t complain,’ Daniel agreed. ‘Good food, good company, dangerous amounts of fresh air, flowers flowering, bees buzzing, all charmingly bucolic and stress free.’

  ‘See. Told you it could work.’

  ‘Never doubted it for a nano-second. Even Rhian seems to be coming round to the idea.’

  ‘You noticed the difference in her?’

  ‘She hasn’t tried to bite me once this weekend. A person notices a thing like that.’ He glugged his Pimms. ‘What did you do? Bribe her? Put happy pills in her muesli?’

  ‘She’s made a friend – Sam. A girl, before you ask. They’re in the same class at school. She’s coming over today, so if you’re lucky you’ll get a glimpse of her.’

  ‘Easy on the eye, is she?’

  ‘Not exactly. She has her own special appeal. Main thing is Rhian thinks she’s wonderful, she doesn’t appear to be into drugs, or drink, or boys, she’s very polite, and helps Rhi with her homework.’

  ‘Sounds too good to be true. What’s the catch?’

  ‘I’m not sure that there is one, but she is a bit, well, strange.’

  ‘How strange?’

  ‘She’s very serious. Her parents sound like lifelong activists, and it’s certainly rubbed off on her.’ Fliss shrugged, ‘Might be a good thing, I suppose.’

  ‘Can’t wait to meet her.’ He leant forward and ran a finger down Fliss’s bare, brown arm. ‘Does this mean they’ll be going out together later and giving us the opportunity to run naked through the house?’

  ‘You can run, I’ll watch. I feel far too lazy for anything so energetic.’ She drained her glass. ‘Now, fetch me another one of those, will you, and bring the stuff you dug out on Withy Hill, I want to read it.’

  Fifteen minutes later Fliss was pacing up and down the garden, print-outs in hand, too furious to keep still.

  ‘This is terrible, it’s a nightmare.’ She waved the papers in the air to reinforce her point. ‘I can’t believe it. We leave London and move down here for a better, healthier, safer, more natural way of life only to find we’re in Frankenstein’s sodding back yard. How can something like this be going on and nobody know about it?’

  ‘Fliss, Babe, calm down. Don’t you think you might be jumping to conclusions a bit here? I read all that stuff and I didn’t see anything so terrible.’

  ‘What? You are joking! Withy Hill Farm is owned by Jefferson Inc, a humungous American corporation who, and I quote, “ lead the field in the quest for new and innovative methods of bio diverse gene development and hybridised farming.”  That’s genetic engineering, Dan. That’s cloning, or mixing pigs with sheep, or God knows what.’

  ‘You don’t know that for sure. And anyway, just because the parent company might be into dodgy stuff doesn’t mean anything like that is going on at Withy Hill Farm, does it?’

  ‘Oh no? So why are they building a laboratory, then?’

   ‘New types of chicken feed?’ he offered.

  ‘Daniel, why are you refusing to see this? It’s here in black and white, why won’t you admit it?’

  ‘Look, I just think a little information can be misleading. There’s probably nothing sinister going on, and I refuse to have our weekend ruined by something that might not even be happening.’

  ‘Sod the weekend! There are more important things than having a good time, you know.’

  ‘I know, I know. All I’m saying is, don’t let it stress you out. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but…’ he held up his hands to fend off her interruption, ‘…on Monday I will try and find out more for you. Just to put your mind at rest.’

  Fliss narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘And would you tell me if you found something you knew I wouldn’t like?’

  ‘Of course I would, sweetness.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ he went over to her and slipped his arm around her waist. ‘Now come and sit down and stop getting your thong in a twist.’

  ‘I never wear a thong.’

  ‘Bloomers then. Knickers. Panties.’

  ‘Please, not panties. Panties are what drooling men of a certain age call them.’

  Daniel kissed her lightly.

  ‘What you need, young lady, is a holiday.’

  The tension quickly returned to Fliss’s body.

  ‘You’re not going to bully me about holidays again, not now, please Dan.’

  Now it was Daniel’s turn to bristle. He stepped away from her.

  ‘Well excuse me. Here’s me thinking you might actually like to go on holiday with me, and all the time I’m just ‘bullying’ you.’

  ‘You know we can’t agree on how long, or where, or when, or what to do about Rhian. And I’ve got other things to think about right now.’

  ‘When haven’t you? If you go on avoiding talking about it much longer there won’t be any holidays left to choose from. I’m beginning to think that would quite suit you. Oh dear, everywhere is booked up.  Problem solved. Forget the whole thing. Stay at home instead.’

  ‘Oh, Dan…’

  ‘I’m getting a little tired of this, to tell you the truth. All I want is to take you somewhere warm and wonderful for a couple of weeks in the summer. What the hell is so wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing. But my life is a bit more complicated than that. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is.’

  ‘If Rhian doesn’t want to come with us that’s fine by me. She sulked her way through the entire fortnight last year anyway. She’s a big girl now. Surely she could stay with a friend. She’d probably love it – a bit of independence. Or is that what really bothers you? That maybe she might be able to manage without you for a few days. Enjoy it even. Your baby’s growing up, Fliss. Get over it.’

  Fliss opened her mouth to reply, but missed her chance. Rhian came bouncing out of the house, followed by Sam.

  ‘Sam’s here, Mum. OK if we make some pancakes? She’s brought soya-milk.’

  ‘Sure, why not? Hello there, Sam, how are you?’

  ‘Very well thank you, Mrs Horton.’

  Rhian gestured towards Daniel.

  ‘Oh, this is Daniel. My mother’s boyfriend.’

  Sam held out her hand.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Sam,’ Daniel was all smiles again. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. Fliss tells me you’re quite the anarchist.’

  ‘Actually, I said activist…’ Fliss corrected him.

  Daniel laughed.

  ‘Well, which are you, Sam?’

  She considered the question for a moment, then said ‘There are a number of crucial differences between being anti-establishment and being anarchic. Indeed, the state of anarchy is at odds with social progression, which I believe comes from a base of stability.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Daniel and Fliss exchanged glances.

  Rhian pulled at Sam’s arm.

  ‘C’mon, Sam. I’m starving.’

  ‘Do you want a lift into town later?’ Fliss called after them.

  ‘No thanks, Mum. We’ll be in my room. We’ve got stuff to do.’

  After they had gone Daniel flopped back in his chair.

  ‘See what you mean about her,’ he said. ‘Seriously weird.’

  ‘Hhmmm,’ Fliss agreed. ‘Odd they don’t want to go out. They spend hours squirrelled away.’

  ‘Homework?’

  ‘I’m not so sure. I may be wrong, but I have a strong hunch that those two are up to something.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When Fliss felt the first fat drops of rain she turned her face up to the sky. The day had been tryingly hot, with groans of thunder becoming more frequent and pronounced with each passing hour. Two cleaning shifts had left her drained and grumpy.

  ‘Go on then!’ she shouted up at the clouds. ‘You’ve been burping and growling all bloody day. Let’s have some rain!’

  She stood in the middle of the lane at the top of the hill and waited. Seconds later she got what she asked for. It rained so hard that the water bounced off the tarmac and soaked her a second time on the way back up. Fliss laughed and shook her head, holding out her arms as the water coursed over her body.

  ‘Yes! That’s more like it!’ she cried, whooping with glee as the rain washed away the dust of two sitting rooms, a lounge bar, and a study. Not to mention the lingering odour of the gents’ loo.

  ‘That feels fantastic!’ she shouted, allowing herself a little dance in the swiftly forming puddles at her feet.

  It was some moments before she noticed the car which had stopped behind her. It sat, engine running, wipers wiping, driver squinting out at the mad woman blocking the road.

  ‘Oh, sorry!’ Fliss called. She trotted over to the driver’s door and peered in. ‘Sorry,’ she said again.

  The window was lowered six inches and Ryan Behr looked up at her. Fliss recognised him as the estate agent who had found her the cottage.

  ‘Hi!’ She smiled at him and received a blank look that told her he clearly did not recognise her.

  ‘You alright?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks. Just on my way home.’

  There was a painful silence. After a sigh and a nervous glance around the interior of his car Ryan spoke again.

  ‘Want a lift, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes please’ Fliss hurried round to the other side of the car and climbed in. ‘Phew, this is really very good of you. Oops, sorry, I’m dripping all over the place.’ She smiled at Ryan, but his expression was one of ill concealed horror at the amount of water being squelched into his leather upholstery. ‘Lucky for me you came along when you did,’ Fliss went on. ‘Quite refreshing, the rain, for a minute or two, but I’d have been pretty fed up with it by the time I’d walked home.’

  Ryan silently put the car into gear and sped away, causing Fliss to remember to buckle up.

  ‘Wow! My goodness, this goes fast, doesn’t it? Hope there aren’t any cyclists about. Suppose there wouldn’t be in this weather.’ Fliss paused, frowning, then sniffed carefully.

  Ryan shot her a glance.

  ‘What can you smell?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, nothing really…’

  ‘No, go on. You were sniffing. You can smell something, I know you can.’ Ryan was plainly agitated. 

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I thought maybe I could detect just the slightest whiff of…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘…fish?’ Fliss offered.

  Ryan slapped the steering wheel hard, making Fliss jump in her seat.

  ‘I sodding knew it! Fish! It is fish.’

  ‘It’s really very faint.’

  ‘That’s not the point, is it. What’s it doing in here? That’s the point.’

  ‘Maybe someone ate fish and chips in here,’ Fliss suggested.

  ‘No-one eats in my car,’ said Ryan coldly.

  ‘Ah. No. Of course not.’

  Ryan began sniffing energetically.

  It’s been in here for two days now, and it’s getting worse. Thought I was imagining it, but you can smell it. So where the fuck is it coming from?’

  Fliss offered no more suggestions.

  ‘Oh, just drop me on the corner here, that’ll be fine,’ she said.

  As quickly as it had started the rain stopped. Ryan pulled up on a slight slope.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he almost shouted at Fliss.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That rattling noise. There was a rattle. Somewhere in the dashboard.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘It happens when I turn a certain type of corner, or go up a certain type of hill. Listen.’ Ryan knocked the car back into gear and roared off once more, completing a dizzying circuit of the green before coming to a halt again.

  ‘There! There, did you hear it that time?’

  ‘No,’ said Fliss, ‘sorry. Nothing.’

  Ryan’s knuckles tightened to white on the steering wheel.

  ‘There is a sodding rattle somewhere. I know there is.’

  ‘Well, thanks for the lift,’ Fliss climbed out of the car quickly before Ryan could decide to go round again. ‘Bye.’ She shut the door and stepped back to avoid a further soaking from the wake of the speeding car. Shaking her head she walked down the narrow road that took her to Brook Terrace.

  Inside the house was in gloom. The storm clouds still blotted out the sun, and the lights weren’t working.

  ‘Great, a power cut. Just what I need.’

   She dropped her bag on the kitchen table and called out.

  ‘Rhian? Rhi, are you in?’ Silence answered her question.

   Fliss climbed the stairs and fumbled for a towel in the half-light of the bathroom. She rubbed her wet hair, then stepped out of her soggy clothes and put on a pink towelling robe of Rhian’s. It was not yet six o’clock, but the afternoon had been a tedious, sticky one, and Fliss headed back downstairs to the fridge in search of wine. The mostly empty shelves were a sorry sight without their perky little light.

  ‘Teenagers,’ Fliss said aloud, squinting at the spaces where food had once been. ‘How can anyone eat so much and still have legs like pipe cleaners? At least she’s not interested in my wine.’

  She took the bottle and a glass and made her way to the peace and comfort of the little sitting room. She had just enough energy left to light a candle to lift the gloom before subsiding into her favourite chair. She put her feet up on a beanbag and wriggled into her seat with a sigh. Eyes closed she sipped her drink.

  ‘Fliss,’ she told herself, ‘this is bliss.’

  Suddenly a tension stiffened her body. She lowered her feet to the floor very slowly and sat up. She opened her eyes and tugged the bathrobe down over her knees in the self-conscious movement of someone who senses they are not alone.

  Cautiously she turned her head and peered across the room to the curtain rail over the low window. The small, shiny eyes which blinked back at her belonged to a very large, very orange, and very baffled-looking chicken.

  The automatic doors of the large, ultra-modern hotel glided open and Rose wheeled Baby through in his buggy.   This was not the sort of place she was used to. There was a strange sound level in the foyer; a curious mixture of business shoes on holiday carpet, with voices pitched somewhere between a laugh and a whisper. Everything that wasn’t glass was chrome, so that each surface shone and gleamed and reflected distorted pictures of passing people.

  Rose and Baby paused to take it all in. Their journey up to London on the train had been swift and trouble free, so that they were both quite calm and relaxed, given the exciting day that this was for them.  Rose had tried to speak to Ryan about Baby reaching the national finals of the competition, but she could tell he wasn’t really listening. Maybe if she had mentioned that they would have to go to London, or told him just how much the prize money was, perhaps then he would have paid attention. It had been obvious he was more concerned with his car and its peculiar little problems. In any case Rose was satisfied that she wasn’t keeping Baby’s success a secret from him. It was up to him if he could not be bothered to be involved and therefore may have missed one or two interesting details.

  Rose looked around for clues as to where she was supposed to go next. Everybody else seemed to know where they were going and to be striding about with such confidence and purpose and style. Rose caught sight of a blurred version of herself peering out from a piece of metal wall behind a potted palm. She straightened her shoulders and adjusted the collar of her beige mackintosh. She hoped she wouldn’t have to take it off, as it was by a very long way the most up-to-date garment she possessed.  At last she spotted a notice board which directed Baby Competition contestants to the Wessex Room. Fifty yards more of blue speckled carpet brought her to heavy double doors.

  Inside the enormous room all was barely controlled chaos.  The space was divided into dozens of open-fronted cubicles, each containing a small table, and each displaying glamorous photographs of the occupying infant. Mothers, fathers, grandmothers and nannies fussed and fiddled with their babies, arranging them atop their tables variously on sheepskin rugs, satin quilts, or tartan throws. The adults bustled about, all noise and seriousness and barely contained excitement, while their offspring either sat mute and dazed, or shrieked and screamed at full volume. 

  ‘Can I see your entry card?’

  A voice at Rose’s shoulder broke through the cacophony.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your entry card,’ the smart suited young woman stood, clipboard poised. The plastic tag on her sharp lapel stated her name as Beverly ‘I need your contestant number.’

  Rose fumbled in her bag and found what was required.

  ‘Lovely. Follow me, I’ll show you to your booth.’ She set off at a brisk pace and Rose hurried along behind, pushing Baby through the slalom of parked buggies and kit bags. 

  ‘Here we are. This is you – 43J.’ Beverly stopped and looked at the dumbstruck Rose. ‘Have you got everything you need? Hmmm? Something to put Baby on, a rug, perhaps. Some props?’

  ‘Props?’ Rose was gazing at the beautiful photos of Baby which had been supplied by the newspaper photographer.

  ‘Yes, balloons, ribbons, banners, teddies. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure. He has brought his blue rabbit…’

  ‘Good. Lovely. You get yourself set up then, and I’ll pop back and see you again in a mo. OK?’ Beverly turned on an impossibly high heel and sped back towards the door.

  Rose stood where she was left, transfixed. Everyone in the room except her seemed to know what they were supposed to be doing. Ribbons and bows festooned the little table, where babies sat dressed in gorgeous dresses or immaculate sailor suits. Parents cooed and cajoled their children into pretty poses. Hangers on dashed here and there fetching extra equipment and refreshments. It all looked very professional and daunting, and not at all what Rose had expected. She stared at the woefully bare table next to her. 

  The tannoy squeaked into action.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ a voice boomed, ‘judging will commence in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to judging.’

  Rose looked down at Baby sitting so placidly in his buggy.

  ‘Right, little one,’ she took a deep breath. ‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we?’

  Claude Lambert was a man whose appearance denied his profession. It wasn’t simply that he was underweight (downright skinny, truth be told), it was more than that. His body looked somehow starved. Undernourished. What little flesh he had clung limply to his bones. His face was equally spare and angular. Over all he gave the impression of being someone who had no interest in food whatsoever. A disadvantage for a chef, one might have thought. But not so. In this age of the Cult of Thin, Monsieur Lambert’s emaciation sent a subliminal message to his fans – eat my food, and you won’t get fat. Eat my sinful crab and lobster pate, my calorie-rich steak Diane, my sugar toxic fruit brûlée, and you will not get fat. Eat as much as you like, don’t hold back. Feast. Indulge. Eat, eat, eat! You will not get fat. Look at me.

  So, thinness, then, did not constitute a problem for our celebrity chef. What was seriously beginning to be a cause for concern amongst his entourage was another aspect of his appearance. It had to do with his skin. No matter that he was pale – what sensible person does not protect himself from the destructive rays of the sun? No matter that his skin appeared so taut over his frame, or so hairless on his limbs and chest, or so ever-so-slightly soft and feminine. The man was dedicated to his art, after all, spending his time in a kitchen, and working so terribly hard. All this could be explained away and forgiven. What was harder to ignore with every passing day was the unlikely but undeniable blueness of his skin. Blueness in regards to flesh is not good, however you look at it. and blueness coupled with skinny spells cadaverous. And death is not health, is it? Eat my food and it could be the last thing you ever do is not an attractive sales pitch.

  Naturally, any photographs of Claude, such as those on the jackets of his best-selling books, or on the walls of his restaurant, had been skilfully manipulated to remove all traces of blueness. Some went even so far as to give him a rosy glow. So it came as a surprise to Neville to come face to face with his hero at last and discover him indigo tinged.

  Standing in the drawing room of Withy Hill Farm he stared at Claude as the two engaged in a bony handshake. He was aware of Michael Christian’s voice beside him.

  ‘Neville is quite the gourmet. A great fan of yours, Claude. Good man to have on our team for the fundraiser.’

  Claude managed a tight smile, a dry sniff, and a nod.

  Neville stopped staring.

  ‘It’s an honour, a privilege, to meet you, Mr Lambert,’ he said.

  ‘Claude’ muttered Claude.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Claude. Call me Claude,’ repeated the chef only a fraction louder.

  He had a curious accent. His French origins were clearly evident, particularly in the strangled diphthongs. What was unexpected was the cockney twang, acquired from teenage years spent living with an uncle in Mile End. This collision of cultures put his name somewhere between ‘cloud’ and ‘cleared’. On top of this, the man spoke so softly, as if every breath was an effort, that whatever he said was hard to make out.

  Michael was pouring drinks.

  ‘Sadly, the lovely Lucy cannot be with us tonight. I think you’ve met her, Neville? Claude’s PA, yes?’

  Neville began to blush, his memories of Lucy still all too fresh in his mind.

  ‘However,’ Michael went on, handing round whiskies, ‘we are of course expecting Cynthia.’ He paused to take a large swig of his drink. ‘Not sure who else. Still,’ he slapped Neville on the back, ‘as long as the three of us are here we can get this thing sorted, no trouble at all. Isn’t that right, Nev?’

  Neville winced. He disliked his name being shortened, particularly by people he barely knew. It surprised him that Michael Christian should be so apparently keen to have him involved. He had never given him the time of day before.

  As if by way of an answer Michael said to Claude, ‘I believe I mentioned Neville’s an important guy hereabouts. He’s in planning at County Hall in Barnchester. A man of influence.’

  ‘Actually,’ Neville interrupted, ‘I really don’t have any influence at all. Not over planning decisions. Not my responsibility.’

  ‘Ahh, you’re too modest, Nev.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short, man.’

  ‘I’m just saying…’

  ‘I understand,’ Michael tapped the side of his nose, ‘can’t be seen to be playing favourites. Don’t have to spell it out. We know where you’re coming from.’ His wink had all the subtlety of a pantomime.

  The rapping of a brass knocker, followed by distant, contained barking from Eric and Vinnie, heralded Cynthia’s arrival. She came full of apologies and explanations.

 ‘So sorry I’m late, everyone. Unforgivable of me. Ah! Monsieur Lambert, we meet again. Please believe me, I would have been here on time had I not first called for Miss Siddons only to find she has been laid low by a summer cold, and sends her apologies. Ditto from Pam, my second stop en route. Pressure of work, she tells me. Why people cannot organise themselves properly I shall never understand. But there it is, et voila, j’arrive toute seule,’ she gave a girlish laugh in Neville’s direction. ‘At least I know I can count on you, dear Neville. So good to have a friend one can rely on.’ She stepped forwards and laid a hand on his arm.

  Neville smiled weakly and moved to the table, drawing out a chair for Cynthia by way of an excuse for evading further physical contact.

  ‘Shall we get started?’ he suggested.

  ‘Ah, enthusiasm! Marvellous!’ Cynthia actually batted her eyelids at him as she sat down.

  Neville was about to escape to the safety of the far side of the table, but Cynthia patted the seat next to her firmly.

  ‘Come, come, mon cher. I need my right hand man at my right hand, after all.’

  Michael and Claude joined them at the table, Michael replenishing glasses.

  ‘Drink for you, Cynthia?’ he asked.

  ‘No thank you. I prefer to keep a clear head. Though I see, Claude, that you enjoy our Scottish beverage,’ she said, watching Claude knock back another double.

  Claude sniffed twice.

  ‘I believe a little liquor is a fine digestive,’ he said.

  ‘Quite,’ said Cynthia, putting on her glasses. ‘Now. To business. We have made some progress during our earlier meetings, and, after several lengthy telephone conversations with your assistant, Claude, I believe the definitive outline for the event now exists.’

  ‘Well done, Cynthie,’ Michael congratulated her. ‘Good news, eh Claude?’

  Claude gave an edgy Gallic shrug and another sniff.

  Cynthia peered at him over her glasses.

  ‘Do you have a cold, Monsieur?’

  ‘Eh? Non.’ He shook his head, fidgeting in his seat and rubbing his eyes. ‘I am maybe a little tired.’

  ‘Of course. I understand. Neville, would you be so kind as to hand these out?’

  Neville took the neatly stapled piles of paper and did as he was told. It did not escape his notice that Claude took no interest in the details in front of him.

  ‘I must say, Claude,’ he said as he sat down again, ‘I’m surprised you can find time in your busy schedule to fit in a humble little do like ours. Delighted, of course, but surprised.’

  Michael was quick to answer for him.

  ‘Oh, Claude knows what a fantastic opportunity this is for him to meet his public. Go hands on with his fans. Great publicity for his new book, his restaurant, and for Withy Hill Farm, of course. To launch our partnership.’

  Claude shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, ‘it is for this reason I do it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Neville, ‘great. London, Paris, Nettlecombe Hatchet – an obvious combination of venues for your enterprises.’

  ‘What does he say?’ Claude demanded hoarsely of Michael, who ignored him.

  ‘Claude is an astute business man,’ he told Neville, ‘he knows what he’s doing.’

  Cynthia rustled her papers pointedly.

  ‘Of course he does. Now, shall we get on?’

  ‘I have to use the WC,’ Claude announced suddenly, getting to his feet.

  ‘What? Oh, OK.’ Michael ushered him out of the room. ‘I’ll show you where it is.’

  After they had gone Cynthia tutted loudly.

  ‘Really, artistic temperament. I do hope Monsieur Lambert will be able to deliver on the day. The man doesn’t look at all well.’

  ‘You noticed that too?’ said Neville.

  ‘He is rather an odd colour, don’t you think? And all that sniffing. Perhaps he suffers from hay fever.’ 

  ‘I’ve never known hay fever turn anyone blue. He looks terrible. Not what I expected at all. He seems so…flat. Where’s the enthusiasm, the drive, the fire I’ve seen in him when he cooks on TV?’ Neville shook his head. ‘He’s not the man I thought he was.’

  Cynthia leant closer to Neville and gently patted his leg.

 ‘Courage, mon brave, it is never easy to discover one’s heroes have feet of clay.’

  Neville tensed with the effort of stopping himself removing Cynthia’s hand from where it now rested on his thigh.

  ‘I suppose it doesn’t really matter,’ he talked to cover his discomfort, ‘it’s his cooking that counts, his inspired recipes. Not how he looks.’

  ‘Precisely. That is the reason people will flock to see him.’

  ‘Even so,’ Neville focussed intently on unfolding a paper clip, ‘it’s a shame we have a celebrity who appears devoid of personality. He’s hardly the sort to make the party go with a swing, is he?’

  Moments later Claude and Michael reappeared.

  ‘Ahh, good,’ said Cynthia, ‘now to business.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Madame,’ said Claude, ‘I am keen to know every little thing that you have planned. I truly believe this can be a fantastic day. For all of us. Formidable.’ He picked up the proposed schedule in front of him and studied it.

  Neville, once again, found himself staring at Claude. The man seemed transformed. True, he was still blue, but now his eyes shone and his movements were quick, his gestures expansive and energetic, his whole demeanour altered.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Claude enthused as he read. ‘I can see how this will work. Wonderful. Madame Cynthia, together with the lovely Lucy(,) you have created a masterpiece of the organising. I think it can be magnificent!’ He reached across the table, grabbed her hand, and kissed it noisily. ‘I salute you!’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur!’ Cynthia giggled and wriggled on her chair.

  Neville kept his hands well out of reach in case this new improved version of Claude started kissing everyone. The man’s transformation from warm corpse to bon viveur was startling, and, more than a little worrying.

to be continued…

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