Emma Page - Element of Chance

‘Mr Yoxall?’ Alison said in surprise.

‘Yes.’ Hazel sounded mildly irritated. ‘He’s very good at gros point. A lot of men do embroidery.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘He’s making some cushions for the Fair. And he’s doing a lot to help generally.’ She fixed on Alison an eye full of accusation. ‘Everyone’s doing what they can.’

‘Yes,’ Alison said. ‘Actually I’d like to do something to help, if it’s not too late to offer. I find I’ve a little more free time just at present.’

‘Oh well,’ Hazel said, a fraction more warmly, ‘that’s good news. As a matter of fact we’re in a bit of a jam, the woman who was going to run the objets d’art stall has had to go up north to look after her grandchildren. Her daughter’s gone into hospital and it looks as if she’s going to be there for some time. Do you think you could take on the stall? I know nothing about art, but you ought to be good at it. You have the right artistic background.’ A reference to the fact that Alison’s father – a well-known figure in this part of the county in his day – had been a painter, creating precise, delicate landscapes in water colours.

‘Yes, I’m sure I could manage it,’ Alison said. Impossible now to refuse without plunging Hazel back into hostility. She became aware of the time. ‘I must go or I won’t get anything to eat.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Hazel said firmly. ‘To be absolutely in order of course we should have to get the agreement of the committee.’ A lively note entered her voice. ‘If you’re free this evening why not come along to the committee meeting? You’ll need to be given all the details about the stall. The meeting’s at half past seven.’

‘Yes, I can manage that,’ Alison said. ‘Where do the meetings take place?’ She knew the Fair was to be held in a church hall close to where she lived; she saw the gaily-painted posters twice a day when she passed the building.

‘The members take it in turns to hold the meetings in their own houses. This week it’s the chairman’s house. Or I should say the chairwoman.’

‘And who is the chairwoman?’ Alison asked.

‘Mrs Ford. Beryl Ford.’ Oh Lord, Alison thought, I don’t want to get mixed up with the Fords. She’d known Arthur Ford when she worked at CeeJay and during the two years her marriage had lasted; she had never greatly cared for him. ‘I imagine you know where Mrs Ford lives,’ Hazel added.

‘Yes, I believe so,’ Alison said casually. She had set foot in the house once or twice as a young junior at Ceejay.

There was really nothing she could do to wriggle out of it now. ‘Very well,’ she said briskly. ‘Mrs Ford’s house. Half past seven. I’ll be there.’

Beryl Ford was in the kitchen dishing up lunch when her husband and son reached home.

‘Chicken,’ Arthur Ford said as soon as the front door swung open at his key. He gave a second sniff. ‘And apple pie.’ Other men might go home on Mondays to an uninspiring lunch knocked up from yesterday’s remains – or not even be allowed home at all but provided with a packet of sandwiches or a nod towards the works canteen – but not Arthur Ford. Oh dear no. Beryl Ford knew better than to try that one on. Or at least she knew better now after twenty years of marriage. Some things she could get away with, some areas where she could wear the trousers, but as far as grub was concerned she knew from early and deeply-etched experience precisely where the limits of tolerance lay.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Robin said. He followed his father into the over-furnished dining room. Beryl came bustling in from the kitchen, carrying a tray. Her face was flushed, her brilliantly blonde hair was starting to slip from its moorings.

‘Here you are at last then,’ she said sharply. ‘Sit down.’ She began to slap food on to plates.

‘I don’t want very much,’ Robin said mildly. His mother dug the spoon into the casserole, didn’t bother to comment, piled up his plate and handed it to him. ‘Eat that,’ she commanded. ‘Put some flesh on your bones.’ He took the plate without protest and began to eat.

‘You were ten minutes late coming in today,’ Beryl said to her husband in a challenging tone. He made no reply but concentrated on the food. ‘Don’t be late again this evening,’ she said on a higher note. ‘I’ve got a committee meeting here tonight. The Charities Fair. I can’t be kept hanging about in the kitchen,’ Neither Arthur nor Robin gave any sign that they had heard what she said. She lobbed out her own helping and plonked her thin frame down on her chair. ‘I hope we find someone to take over the art stall,’ she said a moment later in a somewhat less querulous tone. ‘I keep asking around but I can’t come up with anyone suitable.’

Arthur finished chewing a succulent morsel of chicken. He speared another on his fork. ‘I hope you haven’t got any committee meetings on Wednesday evening,’ he said in a calm, pleasant voice. ‘If you have you’d better cancel them.’

Beryl raised her head abruptly like a gun dog that had got wind of game. ‘What’s so special about Wednesday?’ she asked, giving him a penetrating glance.

‘Rolt’s coming to supper,’ Arthur said in a throwaway manner. Beryl flashed him an incredulous, delighted look. ‘And Madame Celia is coming with him,’ Arthur said, still deadpan.

Beryl flung down her fork. ‘Never!’ she cried. ‘Not Celia Brettell! I just don’t believe it!’

‘Believe it or believe it not,’ Arthur said with tranquil majesty, ‘on Wednesday evening the pair of them will set foot in this house.’ He gave a massive nod. ‘For supper and cards.’ He fixed Robin with a patriarchal look. ‘You’ll be here, naturally.’

‘I was going to play squash at the youth club,’ Robin said without any note in his voice other than that of flat statement.

Arthur inclined his head briefly in regret for the necessity to cancel the squash game. ‘You’ll be here,’ he said amiably. No need to argue or raise his voice, always a trifle surprised when he heard of other men having pitched battles with their offspring.

‘I suppose I’ll have to lay on a banquet for his lordship,’ Beryl said, divided between pleasure at the thought of being licensed to splash out freely and irritation at the notion that all her efforts were going to be directed towards providing lavish hospitality for Andrew Rolt – who had as good as done Arthur out of the area manager’s job at CeeJay – and that stuck-up creature Celia Brettell, with her flash car and mighty high opinion of herself. She began to consider the meal in detail. Steak? Sirloin? Chicken? Or a turkey – ‘what about a turkey?’

‘Claret,’ Arthur said on a musing note. ‘Or a really good hock?’ Must remember to get a dryish sherry for Rolt. He held out his plate. ‘I’ll have a bit more of that chicken’ he said graciously. He felt a sudden keen increase in his appetite.

‘I’d like some more coffee, if we’ve time,’ Celia Brettell said. The cheese had been rather salty.

‘Yes, that’s all right.’ Andrew signalled the waiter. Another ten minutes or so before he need take the road for his interview.

‘Would you plan to move from Barbourne?’ Celia asked. He appreciated the way she didn’t add ‘if you get the job’, seeming to accept without question that he would be successful.

He raised his shoulders. ‘I couldn’t say at this stage. I’d have to see how it worked out.’ Kain Engineering was only twenty miles away, just over the border of the next county. Near enough to let him keep his present house if he wished, but far enough removed both in actual distance and psychologically – by virtue of that county border – to provide a liberating sense of making a completely fresh start, if he did decide to move.