Paula’s face was scarlet with relief, and she nodded. “Mondays and Wednesdays, they said. I hope that will fit in.”
“By the way,” Lois added, as they went to the door, “where have you worked before?”
“Oh, I was in a builders’ office. Part-time general dogs-body, on a minimum wage.” Paula grinned. “They were quite big developers in Tresham, with offices in London and several other cities. Covered the whole country and some abroad.”
“Are they still there?” asked Lois.
“Oh, yeah. Head office is in Amsterdam, I think. It’ll be nice to work for a small business like yours. You can rely on me, Mrs. Meade,” she repeated, cuddling Frankie close.
“Mrs. M,” Lois said, smiling kindly. “That’s what the others call me. Mrs. M.”
TEN
WHAT TIME IS YOUR MEETING, DEREK?” GRAN WAS READING an old recipe book that had been her mother’s, planning what to cook for their evening meal. There was no longer a butcher in Long Farnden, but Josie at the shop had lately done a deal with John Thornbull to supply her with his farm-reared meat, already vacuum packed, and in manageable sizes for elderly people who could not get into town and were reluctant to have food delivered from supermarkets. “Don’t trust ’em, myself,” Gran had said. “I like to see what I’m buying.”
Now Josie had chicken breasts, packets of beef and lamb mince, sausages of several kinds, all labeled as local produce. They sold well, and Gran was searching for a recipe she knew her mother had cooked, using slices of chicken, shallots and herbs.
“It’s seven thirty,” Derek replied. “I fixed for it to be in the Reading Room. I can see we’ll probably be having more than one meeting a week as things go on, and Lois ain’t too keen on missing her telly programs.”
Gran’s face fell. “That’s a shame,” she said. “I was goin’ to make some shortbread for you lot to have with your coffee.”
“You can still make it,” Derek said, knowing perfectly well that a vanished opportunity for eavesdropping was the real reason for her disappointment. “I’ll take it with me when I go.”
“Can’t think why we need all this fuss about restoring the village hall,” Gran said sulkily. “The Reading Room is fine, just the right size for meetings.”
“All right for small meetings, but not for putting on concerts and plays, and playing badminton and havin’ cookery demonstrations an’ that. Anyway, Gran, I must be off now. I should be finished that job over at Fletching today, and then I can start on Sam Stratford’s rewiring job.”
Gran found the recipe, and decided to walk down to the shop to buy chicken and other ingredients. They needed several other things, and she unhooked her shopping bag.
It was a lovely morning, and Gran thought proudly that the village was good enough to be in a film, with its gold-stone houses and trim gardens and hedges. Hey! That was an idea for raising money! She must remember to tell Derek. If they could persuade filmmakers to use Farnden as a location, that would surely bring in big money, wouldn’t it? Her friend Joan, who lived in Blackberry Gardens, had been to the Island of Mull where the popular children’s TV program Balamory was filmed and crowds of tourists came specially to the island to see the place and the actors in the flesh.
“Morning, Gran,” Josie said. “You’re down here early. Everybody gone off to work?”
“Yep, leaving me to do the chores and provide hearty meals and comfort and advice,” Gran said, hands on hips.
“Oh, go on with you,” Josie replied. “You know you love it. What would you do with yourself if you were still in that poky little bungalow on the Churchill?”
“Well, you might be right. But enough o’ that. I need some chicken breasts.”
“Making chicken Kiev?”
“Certainly not,” Gran answered, “whatever that is. No, I found a recipe of your great grandmother’s, and thought I’d try it for supper.”
“Dad’s got a meeting, hasn’t he?”
“Yep, but it’ll all be ready when they get in. For some stupid reason, they’re meeting in the Reading Room in future.”
Josie smiled. “Ah, never mind,” she said. “You could always drop in on them, bearing cream cakes and tea bags.”
Gran huffed and puffed around the shop, gathering what she needed. Then she perched on the old person’s stool by the counter, and asked Josie what was new in the village. Half the fun for customers of the village shop was to exchange gossip, and although Josie tried to smile and say nothing, if there was some piece of news that was already common knowledge, then she happily passed it on to Lois or Gran.
“Seems the idea of a soap box grand prix has sparked some interest,” Josie said. “O’ course, the whole thing about fund-raising for the village hall is the hot topic at the moment. Blimey, I’ve never heard so many heated discussions here in the shop! The village is split, I reckon. Some want a festival-mostly the incomers-and the rest, the old guard, are really looking forwards to the soap box racing. Seems there used to be something of the sort in the past.”
“How about that Gavin Adstone?” Gran said. “The festival was his idea, apparently. Big idea, say some. I don’t suppose he comes in the shop much?”
“Not him. But his wife does, with the toddler, and she’s really nice. I feel a bit sorry for her. She hasn’t made many friends yet. Because of him, I should think. He’s too clever by half. Thinks the rest of us are bumpkins!”
“He’ll learn,” said Gran enigmatically. She had seen it all before. “Young couples buying houses in the village. ‘It’s so quaint!’ they say. And then, before you can say knife, they start wanting to change it.”
The shop door opened, and a couple of teenagers came in. One of them Gran recognized as the eldest son of that woman over in Pickerings’ house, and a right scruff he was, too. She stood up, grasped the hairy handles of her planet-friendly bag, and left the shop.
The boys did not come straight to the counter, but lingered over a display of newspapers and magazines by the door. Josie kept an eye them, knowing from experience that even the best brought up kids can be light fingered if the temptation is too great.
She was about to suggest that if they were going to leaf through all the magazines they might buy one and leave the rest clean and tidy for others, when the boy who belonged to Paula Hickson burst into delighted guffaws. His pal peered at a virtually naked girl carrying all before her.
“That’s enough, boys,” Josie said. “You’ve had your fun, now please put that magazine back tidily and tell me what you came to buy.”
“You ain’t got it, missus, so we can’t buy it,” said the Hickson boy, and they both left the shop, sniggering as they went.
Charming! thought Josie, remembering how pleasant she had found Paula Hickson, and deciding the boy must take after his absent father. It was not until later, when she was checking the newspapers for the next day’s order, that she discovered they were one magazine short.
ELEVEN
THE EVENING WAS MILD, WITH A GENTLE BREEZE STIRRING the leaves on the giant chestnut that spread its branches above the small Reading Room, which had been donated to the village in l898 by a benevolent squire at the hall. It had recently been restored, and Derek unlocked the door with a feeling of pleasure at the success of a campaign that had saved the little building from being bulldozed, with the ironstone to be used for repairing a wall around the new vicarage.
He arranged a table and chairs ready for the meeting, and sorted through some details about soap box racing that Lois had downloaded for him from her computer. He had been considerably alarmed at the technical stuff about constructing the soap boxes, and about safety regulations that would have to be considered. He would ask Tony Dibson what they had done in the old days. No doubt Adstone would use it as an excuse to try turning the committee against soap boxes in any guise.