“Lois? What’s she done now?”
“Only offended my best friend, that’s what. Told Joan Pickering that she hoped she’d give that Hickson woman a warmer welcome than the last new member of WI got.”
“Paula Hickson? Is she joining the WI? Where’s she going to find time, and the money to pay a babysitter?”
“No doubt New Brooms will subsidise her,” Gran said bitterly. “Lois always did like a lame duck or two.”
Derek looked at his watch. “Is Lois still upstairs? Time I went.”
He walked out of the kitchen and called up the stairs. Lois’s voice answered him from her office, and he stamped along the hallway to find her. “What the hell d’you think you’re doin’?” he said. “You’ve had no breakfast, haven’t said a word to me, and now it’s time I went. And,” he added angrily, “your mother is sulking in the kitchen. Seems you’ve upset her friend Joan.”
“Not a bad morning’s work so far, then,” said Lois, with a smile. “Sorry, love. We’ll talk at lunchtime. Something urgent I just had to see to. ‘New Brooms Sweeps Cleaner,’ as you know.”
Derek sighed. “Just as well I love you, Lois Meade,” he said, and disappeared off to work in his van, while Lois went to placate Gran in the kitchen.
“Mum,” she began, “would you do something for me?”
“I don’t feel much like it,” Gran said without looking at her.
“Yeah, well, it’s important,” Lois said. “And confidential.”
This did the trick, and Gran said she supposed she would help if she could.
“I need to find out where that rough bloke is. The one who frightened Bridie.”
“So?”
“So you’ve got friends in the village, and a sharp eye. Can you ask around?”
“Why d’you need to know? Is it him has been trying to burn down the village hall? Maybe breaking in to find shelter at night? Lighting a fire, like they do, and it getting out of hand?”
“Possibly,” said Lois. Maybe Gran was on to something here. The last case she worked on with Cowgill involved gypsies. Now tramps? She shook herself, as if to get rid of unwholesome thoughts, and changed the subject.
“Derek’s SOS meeting is tonight, so we’d better have supper early,” she said.
“I’d already thought of that,” Gran said. “And you’ll be pleased to know that Joan Pickering plans to sling a banner across the hall for WI tomorrow. ‘Welcome Paula Hickson,’ it says.”
Lois hooted with laughter. “All right, you win,” she said.
“I ain’t yer mother for nuthin,” Gran said. “Now leave me to get on. An’ pick up those leaflets off the floor. I’m too old to be bending down clearing up after your husband.”
THE SAVE OUR SHED COMMITTEE SAT IN A HALF CIRCLE IN THE Reading Room. Derek had drawn the blinds against a fierce low sun, and there was a feeling amongst them that some good progress had been made. Floss had been down to the Youth Club and talked to the kids. All had been strongly enthusiastic about the soap box racing, and had started thinking about what they would build.
“The rest of it, they said,” Floss reported, “could be left to the oldies. ‘Let them have their cake stalls and craft bits and pieces, and knittin’ an’ that.’ Those were their very words,” she added, with a sideways look at Gavin Adstone.
To the surprise of the rest of the committee, Gavin commented pleasantly that he was really pleased about that. It was so important to involve the young people in a village, otherwise it became a community of pensioners.
“And what’s wrong with pensioners?” grunted Tony Dibson.
“Nothing at all,” Gavin said hastily. He had worked out-and was keeping to himself for the moment-a major strategy for the SOS fund-raising day, and he needed to keep all persons on the committee on his side.
“How would we feel about a subcommittee dealing with the soap box side of it?” he said to Floss. “I would be very happy to organise that, with you, perhaps, Floss?” He smiled at her and saw from her expression that he still had some way to go before she joined the Gavin Adstone fan club.
Derek thought for a moment. He was well aware that Gavin was up to something, and he had to be quick-witted to forestall him.
“Thanks for offering,” he said, “but I reckon committees are bad enough, and subcommittees worse. We’re all involved here, and all of us want a hand in the way the whole day is organised. After all, some of us remember the Farnden soap box racing from years ago. What say we try our best to stage the same again? There’d be more point to it then.” There were enthusiastic nods of agreement.
Gavin frowned and said, “But we have to abide by Health and Safety. That’ll make a big difference.”
“It can be absorbed,” said Derek confidently. “Now, shall we take a vote on a subcommittee as proposed by Gavin? Those in favour?” Only Gavin raised his hand. “And those against? Right, that’s that, then. Shall we move forwards? Item three: entry forms.”
Gavin opened his mouth to speak. Entry forms were part of his strategy. But he was interrupted by the vicar. “I’ll take care of that, if you tell me what’s required,” said Father Rodney. “I’ve got the copier in the vicarage, so I can print as many as you like.”
Tony raised his hand. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “I could get together with the reverend on that. I’ve still got a form from those old days somewhere. Kept it as a souvenir, after Blunderbuss II won the last grand prix.” He turned to Floss. “That were my old gal. Me and my dad put her together out of this and that. Went like the wind, she did.”
“Your ‘old gal’ was not, presumably, your wife?” Gavin looked round for a laugh, but none came. People in the village didn’t make jokes about Tony’s wife in a wheelchair.
DEREK WALKED BACK TOWARDS THE PUB WITH JOHN THORNBULL, and they agreed that the meeting had gone well. “Feels like we’re on a roll now,” John said. “If we can keep that Gavin chap under control. You know what, Derek?” he added. “I reckon we ought to give him a job, something that’ll sound important but not interfere with our idea of re-creating the old soap box grand prix. What d’you think?”
“Good idea,” said Derek. “But what job?”
“Dunno,” said John. They turned into the pub doorway, and John added that ideas always seemed to come more easily after a pint. “Let’s see what we can come up with,” he said, and walked up to order the beer.
JOSIE SAW THEM GO BY AS SHE WORKED IN THE SHOP STACKING shelves. It had been a busy day, and several items needed replenishing. She had the local radio station on as she worked, and paused to listen to the news. The first item was an unpleasant one: “Police are searching for witnesses who can help them with the identity of the body of a man found in the canal behind the Tresham Industrial Estate. They have released the following details: The man is in his late thirties, heavily built, with long hair and clothes in poor condition.” Details of the police number and assurances of confidentiality followed, and then the newsreader moved on to the latest case of vandalism at the supermarket.
“Some poor down-and-out,” Josie said to her mother, who had just come in through the back door into the stockroom. “Probably drunk out of his mind on meth and missed his footing. Ended up headfirst in the canal. Anybody falling into that sewer wouldn’t stand much of a chance.”
Her mother’s reaction surprised her. “What’s the time?” she asked. “There’ll be local telly news in a minute. Let’s go up to the flat and put it on. Come with me, Josie, I don’t want to miss anything.”
“Mum! Don’t be so ghoulish! One of them no-hopers loses it most weeks. Sad thing is, nobody cares and nobody misses ’em. Sometimes they stay in there for weeks. Nothing for you to get fussed about.”
“Don’t argue,” Lois said sharply. “Just come. Now.”
By the time they got the television on, the story was heading the bulletin. “Oh, look!” Josie said. “There’s Matthew, giving the report!”