Ann Purser - Threats At Three

Mind your own business, thought Kate. But she didn’t answer his question, and changed the subject. “I don’t want to hurry you, Mr. Froot, but I have to pick up Cecilia from the nursery group.”

“Not Mr. Froot, please! Surely we know one another well enough for you to call me Tim?” He looked at his watch. “And I’m sure Cecilia will be there until lunchtime? I’d love to see round your little love nest, my dear.”

Kate felt panic rising, and stood up. “Oh, it’s all too much of a mess for the escorted tour,” she said, making a desperate effort to lighten the atmosphere. She edged towards the door, but he took hold of her arm. “Let me go!” she said, trying to shake him off.

“Oh, come on, Kate,” he said. “I’m sure Gavin would want you to be nice to me. He’s probably not told you, but he owes me a favour. I always collect,” he added, and bent down towards her.

“Get away from me!” she yelled, and managed to pull herself free. She dashed for the door and ran out in the garden, down the path and along the road, where she almost crashed into Tony Dibson, who was pushing his wife along in her wheelchair.

“Hey, hey! Look where you’re going, young lady!” said Tony. Then he realised who it was. “Are you all right?” he added, and put out his hand, as if to support Kate, who looked decidedly shaky.

“Just wasn’t thinking,” she gasped. “So sorry. I’ll just catch my breath. I’m really sorry, Mrs. Dibson.” She looked fearfully behind her, and saw the big car slowly move away and disappear round the corner.

“Who was that?” said Tony. He had no qualms about airing his village curiosity.

“Oh, just a friend of Gavin,” Kate said.

“Did he upset you?” Irene asked, leaning forwards and taking Kate’s hand. “Would you like to come back with us for a cup of tea? We’ll wait while you lock up. Go on, love. We like a bit of company, don’t we, Tony?”

Kate was about to refuse politely, but began to feel dizzy again, and said that she would really like that, if they could spare the time. Tony laughed. “That’s the one thing we got plenty of,” he said.

AS THE CAR CRUISED SLOWLY ALONG, PURRING LIKE A SATISFIED cat, its driver was far from satisfied. Tim Froot did not like being thwarted. He was not used to it, and now he plotted his revenge. Up to now, he had handled Gavin very gently, he considered. He had allowed his former employee to think that this village hall scheme was very small beer to him. But he had bigger plans for Long Farnden. He had achieved a similar project in a number of other villages, and by using a careful building strategy he had made a financial killing without the hicks on their parish councils realising it. “ ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkee,’ ” he repeated his mantra to himself now. But not so softly as before, Gavin, my lad. Time to put on the squeeze.

AS GRAN WALKED UP THE LITTLE PATH TO THE ADSTONES’ front door, she heard raised voices, mostly a man’s voice. She stopped, wondering whether she should perhaps come back a few minutes later. But then the shouting stopped and the front door opened.

“Hi, Mrs. Weedon! Come in for a second. I’m nearly ready.”

Gran thought Kate looked flushed, but she was smiling and looked calm enough. “Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “I’ll wait in the garden. You’ve got some lovely smelly nicotiana over there.” Gavin appeared, and said what on earth was nicotiana? Not a member of the marijuana family, he hoped.

“No, no. We always call it the tobacco plant,” Gran said. “Go on, have a sniff.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, beckoning her in. “Just come in and say hello to Cecilia. She’s all ready for bed and smells of baby powder. I must say I prefer it to anything called nicotiana!”

He seems jolly, Gran thought. Perhaps it was just a moment’s spat. But when she took Cecilia in her arms to give her a cuddle, she could see traces of tears on the toddler’s cheeks. Had her parents’ shouting match made her cry?

“Right, off we go then, Mrs. Weedon,” Kate said, and then reminded Gavin to make sure Cecilia had her favourite brown doggie in her cot. “Night-night precious,” she added, giving Cecilia a kiss.

The two walked off towards the village hall, and Gran chose her moment. As they passed the Dibson cottage, she said she hoped Irene would be at WI. “Her Tony usually pushes her down early to get her settled,” she said. “I saw them this afternoon, going for a stroll down to the shop. They said they’d seen you this morning. I did wonder if you’d make it this evening. They said you’d been a bit dizzy and upset. Nasty turn, was it, dear?” Gran had pretty well decided the girl must be pregnant again, but would not ask outright. There were other ways of finding out.

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Kate. “It was just that, well, you know. It was just…” Her voice trailed off and Gran glanced across at her. Oh dear, the girl was nearly in tears. Not pregnant, then, unless they hadn’t planned it. But no, it must be something else.

“Had a disagreement, you two?” she said, and smiled. “It happens in the best of marriages, you know.”

Kate shook her head. “No, it wasn’t Gavin. I had an unpleasant caller. That’s all. He scared me a bit, and when I told Gavin he was pretty angry.”

“You should call the police,” Gran said firmly. “Was he trying to sell you something?” They were nearly at the door of the village hall now, and Kate blew her nose and shook her head. “No. I knew him, but hadn’t seen him for some time,” she said. “It was nothing, Mrs. Weedon. All over now. Come on, we might miss the floor show!”

Gran laughed delightedly, but did not forget what had happened. Something to report to Lois, she thought. Strange men calling on vulnerable young women, petty thieving from people’s sheds. What was going on? Sooner it was sorted out the better.

“Good evening, ladies,” said Mrs. T-J. “Now, first of all, welcome to Kate Adstone, who’s come to take a look at us. This is an extra meeting, of course, to discuss in detail our entry for the soap box grand prix, and Lois Meade is here, too, to direct operations. And for once, we have a man in our midst! Douglas Meade here has kindly agreed to help us, and we’ve established that this is within the rules. Well, what we have really established is that there are no rules, except that the soap boxes have to have brakes! So shall we get straight down to business?”

“Hi, everybody,” said Douglas, standing up and looking a little nervously at the assembled group. “Mum says, that is Lois Meade, as most of you know, she says that you have decided on your soap box being a jar of jam! I like it, but we’ll have to do quite a bit of design work. I have given it some thought, and reckon we could take a large barrel as our base. I thought if I did most of the construction, then you talented lot could decorate it, make it look like a jar of jam. By the way, will it be strawberry or raspberry?”

“Does it make a difference?” asked Lois, with a grin. They all laughed. Most of them could remember him as a sandy-haired schoolboy, and a nice one at that.

“Of course,” said a straight-faced Douglas. “So where shall we find a barrel? Any ideas?”

“I think I can help there,” said Mrs. T-J. “My people are in brewing, and I’m sure my cousin would be delighted to let us have a barrel. We shall probably have to clean it out, of course, but shall I go ahead with that?”

Blimey, the old thing is a mover and shaker. “Thank you, that would be a great start,” he said, and then suggested they all move into a circle round the big table so that he could show them some preliminary drawings he had made.