Ann Purser - Threats At Three

“What’s next, then, Hazel?” Derek said.

“The soap box race itself,” Hazel said. “John has been collecting up entries already, and Gavin has kindly offered to help. So over to you, John.”

“We’ve got eighteen entries so far, so it looks like we’re going to be a real success,” John said. “Me and Gavin have been getting together over some of the arrangements to be made. My jobs are lining the track with straw bales for safety, and fixing up a starting ramp. This’ll give them a good start, enough to get them down to the finish.”

“Which is where?” Derek said, adding that nobody needed three guesses.

“Right first time,” Gavin said. “The pub is the obvious choice. Should be good for business, and a great place to celebrate a good run, or drown sorrows on a bad one. Okay, everyone?”

Then he and John took turns to list other important matters, like public toilets, mobile phone communication between start and finish, dividing entries into classes, like Sports Clubs, Local Hunt, Youth Club, rerouting through traffic, and so on.

“Don’t forget the Women’s Institute,” Hazel said with a straight face.

“You’re joking!” Gavin said.

“Oh, no I’m not,” Hazel said sharply. “A resolution’s been passed, and they are entering. I reckon they’ll show you lads a thing or two!”

“I hope so,” said Tony Dibson, sotto voce.

“Press and TV publicity,” Father Rodney said. “That’s important. I could volunteer for that, if it would help?”

“Thank you, Vicar,” Derek said, and added that a vicar in the village stocks was sure to be good for a picture of two. “Not sure about too much publicity, though,” he added. “We don’t want the police coming in with all kinds of regulations and safety measures that’ll take half our profits. Keep it low-key, Vicar. Just a small village event. Everybody agree?”

There was general approval, although Gavin Adstone appeared to be about to say something, then didn’t.

“And they’ll take you seriously, you being a man o’ the cloth,” Tony said. “Worth a picture or two in the local paper.” The vicar agreed glumly, but told himself that being humbled in the stocks was all part of his calling.

After more useful discussion about the length of the course, maybe a commentator with loudspeaker system, first-aid team, and so on, Derek said it was time to fix a date for the next meeting and adjourn to the pub.

“Oh, hang on a minute,” Hazel said, stacking her papers. “Shouldn’t we decide on a celebrity opener and presenter for the winners’ prizes? People get really booked up.”

There was a pause, and then Floss said, “Can I suggest something?”

“Good gel,” Tony said, looking at his watch.

“Why don’t we have a soap box queen for the day? Maybe one of the older girls from the school? Like a May queen…”

“Excellent!” said Father Rodney. “A good old tradition revived! I shall speak to our headmistress. If the committee would like me to,” he added hastily. He knew only too well how a bossy vicar could end up thoroughly disliked.

And so they all strolled down to the pub, with Derek delighted at the way things were going and Gavin Adstone somewhat discomforted, aware that his part in the whole thing seemed to be going in a completely different direction from the one he had intended.

ISUPPOSE WE MUST GIVE THE NEW GARDENER A CUP OF TEA,” Mrs. T-J said to Paula. “He’s starting this morning, and it is expected. None of the old red spotted handkerchief with bread and cheese, and a flask of whatever it was they drank. Those days are gone, sadly.” She was quiet for a few moments, and then said sharply, “You’ll find a box of those cheap tea bags in the cupboard. Please use those. Now, I have to go out this morning. Meeting at the town hall. You will probably be gone by the time I get back, so please lock up very carefully. You cannot be too cautious with new staff.”

I suppose that goes for me, too, Paula thought. If she knew the new gardener was my estranged husband, it would look like a conspiracy. We’d both be out on our ears.

Paula had thought long and hard about what she would do when faced with Jack Sr. She had no idea where he was living, or what he intended. He had looked quite presentable, though thin and pale, and it might be that he had been trying lots of other job applications, and this one had come up.

The big question was, did she want him back? She had her new life, and would be able to sustain it, as long as New Brooms still employed her. If only young Jack wasn’t so unhappy and confused, obviously needing a father…

She saw him arrive, and vanish into the kitchen garden. This was an old-fashioned survivor from grander days, and still surrounded by high walls to protect the vegetables and fruit from wind and weather. An ideal place to hide from view. She looked at her watch a dozen times, checking as coffee-break time loomed. The house was empty, except for herself, and frighteningly quiet. Perhaps Mrs. T-J wouldn’t mind if she put on the radio. It was permanently on classical music, but she could always put it back to the right station. But no. The old girl was telepathic. She’d probably stop in the middle of her meeting of justices of the peace at the court, and say that she had to leave early. “My char has switched stations on the radio, and must be severely reprimanded. Meeting adjourned.” Paula could almost hear her…

Her daydream was interrupted by a sudden loud knock. Oh God! It must be him. She opened the kitchen door a crack, and peered out. “Morning Paula,” he said. “Aren’t you going to let me in? The gardener always comes into the kitchen for his mug of tea. The old girl’s out, isn’t she? I saw the car going like a bat out of hell down the drive. God help anyone who gets in her way.” He spoke as if nothing had happened, as though the family was still together.

“I’m not allowed to let anyone in,” Paula said firmly. “I’ll leave it out on that old bench by the stable.” And before he could get his foot in the door, she shut it with a bang. With shaking hands she put on the kettle and found a big mug. When she had filled it with strong, sour-smelling tea from the cheap tea bag, she looked out of the window. He had not returned to the kitchen garden, but was sitting idly on the bench where she had planned to put his mug.

She opened the door, put the tea down on the white step that she scrubbed every week, and yelled that he could come and get it. Then she skipped back into the kitchen and locked the door, shooting the bolt for good measure. Mrs. T-J had a bunch of keys the size of a prison warder’s, so she was certain to have a front door key among them.

She stood in a corner where Jack couldn’t see her, and watched him walk past the window to the step, pick up his mug and drink greedily. Suddenly she felt hot tears pouring down her cheeks unbidden, and fled out of the kitchen into the cloakroom, where she sat on the edge of the lavatory and sobbed for all that had gone wrong with a marriage that had once seemed so good.

After occupying herself upstairs with bedrooms and bathrooms, she finally went back to the kitchen. He was nowhere to be seen, and the kitchen garden gate was shut. She could hear the Rotavator working the potato patch, and knew that he was still there. Slowly she unbolted and unlocked the door and opened it. The empty mug was on the step, and next to it a bunch of white daisies, tied neatly with binder twine. He had remembered. She took them in, found a suitable vase and arranged them carefully. Then she carried them through to the hall and put them on the table under the long mirror, so that there were now two vases of daisies, one a reflection of the other.