Ann Purser - Threats At Three

“Fine,” replied Andrew, abandoning his plan for an evening with a takeaway and a film. “I’ll come around seven, shall I? Or half-past, maybe? We men always think better on a full stomach.”

As he made his way back to his car, still parked outside Meade House, Andrew remembered Bridie Reading’s dramatic story, and wondered who the poor sod was who’d been looking for work. It was a downwards spiral, being homeless, as he knew from his work in the Tresham shelter just up the road from his flat. No permanent address, so no job. Stealing money to buy alcohol and drugs was all part of the sad decline.

Andrew had been through bad times himself after his parents were killed in a car crash, and remembered only too well the awful lethargy that overtook him when he should have been out looking for a job, starting a new life. At least he had had money to tide him over.

“COME IN, ANDREW.” GAVIN ADSTONE SAID HEARTILY. HE STOOD at the door of his cottage, authoritative and welcoming.

Aha, thought Andrew, he’s been on a self-assertion course. First rule: establish who is boss straightaway, especially when someone is trying to sell you something.

“Hello,” said Andrew. “Lovely evening. Nice of you to give up some time to see me. I am sure we shall have an enjoyable discussion, and if nothing comes of it, no matter. I shall have gained a couple of friends, I hope!”

Kate appeared with small Cecilia in her arms. Andrew made a clown face at the little one and raised a laugh. “Three new friends, I should say,” he said. He had been on a course or two himself.

ISAW ANDREW YOUNG IN THE PUB,” DEREK SAID. HE OPENED yet another junk mail envelope and added it to an untidy heap on the floor. “Talking to Gavin Adstone like they was old mates.”

“Perhaps they are,” Gran said. “And don’t expect me to pick up them leaflets.”

“Oops! Who’s upset you this morning?”

“My darling daughter, if you must know.”

“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.”