Ann Purser - Threats At Three

GRAN WAS INSTALLED IN AN ARMCHAIR IN JOAN PICKERING’S front room, along with four other worthies from the Women’s Institute. It was seven thirty, and they were waiting for Mrs. T-J to arrive. This was a meeting of the WI soap box subcommittee, chaired by the president. As the little carriage clock on Joan’s mantelshelf tinkled the half hour, a firm knock at the door signalled Mrs. T-J’s arrival.

“Evening, ladies,” she said, and looked pointedly at Gran, who, well aware she was in the best chair, stayed put and looked the other way. Mrs. T-J perched crossly on the edge of an upright, uncomfortable chair and opened a brand new notebook.

“Now, we are here to talk about our entry for the race,” she said. “Other matters to do with refreshments, cake stall, et cetera, can be dealt with without me, but the soap box is a different matter. Does anybody have any idea how we make one, for a start?”

The ladies looked at each other, and four shook their heads. Then Gran spoke up. “A long time ago,” she said, “my father made a soap box for the boy next door. My dad was handy with his hands, and I remember it well. I don’t suppose any of you remember what a soap box actually was? No? Well, it was a sturdy wooden box for holding soap.”

“Never!” said Joan Pickering, in mock surprise.

“And so,” continued Gran, undeterred, “it was strong enough to stand on, and politicians an’ people not quite right in the head, wanting to sound off about something, used to stand on them to make speeches to anybody willing to listen.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weedon,” said Mrs. T-J. “Very interesting.”

“I haven’t finished,” Gran said. “And so kids used to get old pram wheels and fix them on the soap box, make a steering bar with a bit o’ wood and string, and away they’d go. No brakes, no aerodywhatsits, no Health and Safety to bother ’em. So what say we go for one of those?”

There was a stunned silence, as each of them envisaged sitting on a small wooden box, overflowing it, some of them, trying to steer with a piece of string and only their feet for brakes. Then Mrs. T-J once more thanked Gran for her contribution, and, to give her her due, performed a clever U-turn and said that with a few adaptations, the basic construction was just what was needed. “In other words,” whispered Sheila Stratford to her neighbour, “a wheeled vehicle you can steer, and preferably with brakes.”

“What was that?” Mrs. T-J said sharply. “If you have a useful contribution to make, do let us all hear it, Mrs. Stratford.”

Sheila said quickly that if her Sam could tell them what to do, and she was sure he could, she reckoned Mrs. Weedon’s daughter Lois could knock one up. So long as they didn’t actually get the men to build it, she was sure they could do the job.

“And we could decorate it to look like something WI-ish,” Gran said, quite carried away with enthusiasm.

“A jar of jam,” said Joan Pickering, meaning this as a joke.

“Perfect!” said Miss Wendover. “And we could all sing ‘Jerusalem’ as the jar of jam was first past the post!”

Mrs. T-J looked around the circle of faces. Were they serious? Good heavens, they really were. Well, she herself was renowned for solving problems. She squared her shoulders and said, “Well done, ladies! Now, there’s one more thing. Who is going to be the driver of the WI soap box?”

There was a pause, and then they all answered as with one voice: “You, Mrs. Tollervey-Jones!”

“YOU’RE JOKING!” DEREK SAID WHEN GRAN ARRIVED BACK HOME. “Lois to make a soap box and Mrs. T-J to drive it? In your dreams, Gran.”

“I don’t see why not,” Gran replied huffily. “You can get us the raw materials, Lois and me can knock in a few nails and stick it together.”

“Don’t drag me into it!” Lois said. “You’ll be the laughing stock of the village.”

Douglas, who had called in to bring some new photos of little Harry, said he was on Gran’s side. “And I can help, can’t I? I don’t live in Farnden and am certainly not part of any other team, so I can help the girls, can’t I, Mum?”

“If by ‘girls’ you mean members of the WI, I suppose it would be okay. What do you say, Derek? You’re the chairman of SOS. Have you got any rules?”

Derek shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “Anything goes, more or less. We wanted to keep it simple. So yes, I suppose it would be all right for Doug to help the WI. I know the pub team are recruiting a chap from Plaistow’s Engineering. And he don’t even drink in the pub. So good luck, Gran.”

When the news about the WI entry broke in the pub later that evening, relayed by Derek and Doug who called in for a nightcap, there was disbelief and delight in equal parts. Tony Dibson, who had been playing darts on the winning side, chortled and said he hoped it was a windy day. He’d give a lot to see Mrs. T-J with the wind in her knickers, he vowed.

IT WAS A CLEAR NIGHT, AND IN THE SMALL DEN HE HAD MADE himself in the corner of a disused barn on Thornbull land, Jack Sr. drank a flask of tea made from stream water and the tea bag Paula had, in her panic, left in his mug that morning. The tomato soup, heated up in the tin snitched from a storeroom he’d found in the stable block, tasted good, and with a stale half loaf of bread from a refuse bin in the yard, his hunger was assuaged for the moment.

He raked out the smoldering embers, damped them down with an old wet sack, and curled up in the sleeping bag he’d been given at the night shelter. It was not new, but still clean and warm, and after reviewing what had been a satisfactory first day in his new job, he told himself Paula would soon come round to getting back together. In no time at all, he was fast asleep.

OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL GATES, JACK JR. GLANCED NERVOUSLY from right to left, then walked along towards the town centre. He had stayed after school to hunt for a lost football shoe, but he’d not found it and missed the bus home. Now he had to decide whether to phone his mother, who would be furious on both counts. She would insist on coming to collect him, with the kids packed into her old car, whatever he said about getting a lift. Or he could try finding his friend Lenny’s house and fix up a bed for the night, then ring her and lie, saying he’d been invited. He found lying easy now, since his father had gone. So many times there had been muddles and misunderstandings between him and his mother, and he had finally decided that he’d tell her just what she wanted to hear, and leave it at that.

He trudged along, head down, and did not see the man approach, waiting for him on the corner.

“Where are you off to, then, young Jack?”

Jack stopped abruptly, staring at the man. He had not heard or seen him for several days and had been relieved, thinking he had finally given up. “Mind your own business,” he said.

“Now, now, no need to be rude,” the man said. “Specially as I’ve brought you some nice sweeties. Your favourites. Velly cheap, velly nice, as the Chinaman said. How many would you like?”

“Go away!” Jack said, his voice rising in fear. “If you don’t leave me alone, I shall get Mum to go to the police. Go away!” He was now close to screaming, and the man glared at him. “Shut yer face, kid,” he said. “Your ma would never go to the police, not after what your precious father done!”

Jack dodged around him and ran full pelt along a side street, not stopping until he thought the man was no longer following him. But when he stopped for breath, he looked back and saw him rounding the corner and waving his hand. Jack looked desperately along the street and saw a signboard saying “New Brooms-We Sweep Cleaner.” He opened the door and dashed in, saying, “Can I use your toilet? Got took short.”