‘It’s a red letter day, Alice’ she said smiling broadly.
‘I know…’
‘Really? You heard that the complaint against me had been dismissed, too?’
Mrs Foscetti twirled a small handbag by her side as she dithered along the pavement in fits and starts like a little bird. She was dressed in a navy skirt with lemon piping around the cuffs and collar, and had an amber brooch pinned to her breast. Once inside Alice’s car she settled down in the seat, inspecting her face in the passenger’s mirror and smoothing her skirt over her bony knees.
As they were driving out of Milnathort the old lady pointed to various places, intent upon interesting Alice and keen to find out a little about her sister’s friend. A church they passed was immediately written off as ‘an impostor’. Mystified, Alice enquired why she regarded it in that light. In reply her companion simply said, ‘Their services, dear – no foot washing on Thursdays, you understand,’ as if that provided sufficient explanation. After that short speech she flashed a bright grin, and nodded her head vigorously several times. As Loch Leven came into view, she bent down and took her knitting from her bag and started to click her needles with great speed and dexterity. The knitwear she was making was a sweet pink in colour and appeared to be some kind of bootee, so Alice asked her if it was destined for a grandchild.
‘No,’ Mrs Foscetti replied, her tongue flicking in and out with concentration. ‘I have none. No children either. Charlie and me… well, very quickly we were rather more like babes in the wood than Anthony and Cleopatra, if you get my drift. It’s for my friend’s new granddaughter.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Alice, non-committally. ‘And what did you and Charlie do, your jobs, I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Not at all, dear.’ She was frowning, concentrating hard on not dropping a stitch. ‘We opened a dragonfly museum in Didsbury. He came from Manchester, you know, and he was a real enthusiast, loved the Scarlet Darter particularly. After hours, he used to dance about the place singing like a big lark, unable to believe his own good fortune. Entrance to it would’ve been free if he’d had his way, but,’ she added, fingers still engaged in fevered activity, ‘of course, we had to eat.’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘Morag brought him home with her, like you would a stray dog. Actually, she’s always preferred dogs to people,’ she laughed. ‘But as it turned out, I was the retriever. I retrieved him from her – you could say I whippet him away from her! She drowned her sorrows in a Great Dane called Whisky and his companion, Brandy. It was a ménage a trois…’ She burbled on, amusing herself and giggling all the while.
Once they entered the tenement, the old lady’s spare frame made light work of the stairs, an emaciated claw sliding up the banisters as her highly polished shoes clacked their staccato way on the stone steps. Following the instructions given by Alice in the course of their journey, she waited patiently on the landing directly below her sister’s flat as her escort went to knock on Miss Spinnell’s door. After the usual cacophony of clicks and thuds, Miss Spinnell’s small face peeped from behind her fortress door, eyes wary and a slight scowl turning down her mouth. Seeing Alice, she straightened herself up to her full five feet and stepped out on to the landing to greet her.
‘So, Ali… dear, what do you want?’
Despite the note through her letterbox, dropped by Alice earlier that morning to warn her of an impending visit by a VIP, the ensemble sported by her was as eccentric as ever. She wore an oversized mauve beret, a canary yellow cardigan, elasticated slacks and carpet slippers.
‘Well,’ Alice began, pleased to be the bearer of good news at last. ‘You know I told you about your sister…’
‘Of course, I’ve not lost my wits you know,’ Miss Spinnell said, impatiently.
‘Well…’ Alice tried again, ‘I’m delighted to be able to tell you that she’s alive, not dead as you thought. No, she’s very much alive and…’
‘Nonsense!’ Miss Spinnell cut in. ‘I’ve spoken to her on the other side. And she came across, clear as a bell!’
‘Morag… Morag!’ A piercing voice could be heard coming from the stairwell.
‘In fact,’ Miss Spinnell said, completely unperturbed, a complacent smile transforming her face, ‘I can hear her this very minute.’
‘Yes,’ Alice answered, ‘so can I. She’s here, you see, in this building. Waiting for you -’. But before she had finished her sentence the sound of Mrs Foscetti’s sharp little heels could be heard tapping their way up the stairs and within seconds she had bobbed up onto her sister’s landing. There she stood, clapping her hands and grinning merrily. Then she extended her arms as if expecting an embrace, face proffered, and waited patiently for her sister to react.
‘Annabelle,’ Miss Spinnell said in a stand-offish tone, arms tight to her sides, ‘how lovely to see you.’
Giving Alice a large wink, Mrs Foscetti clasped her twin in a huge hug, ignoring her very obvious distaste and planting several kisses on her papery cheek. Then, beaming in delight at the success of the reunion, she blew Alice a kiss as well. Miss Spinnell, with an expression that said that Alice was really her friend, stiffly followed suit. A real red letter day.
About the Author
Gillian Galbraith grew up near Haddington in Scotland. She worked for many years as an advocate, specialising in medical negligence and agricultural law cases. Before qualifying in law she worked for a time as an agony aunt in magazines for teenagers. She was also the legal correspondent for the Scottish Farmer and has written law reports for The Times. Her first book, Blood in the Water, An Alice Rice Mystery, was published in 2007, and this was followed in 2008 by Where the Shadow Falls. A third Alice Rice mystery, Dying of the Light, was published in 2009. She lives deep in the country near Kinross with her husband and child, cats, dogs, hens and bees.
