Craft Matters

14

Craft Matters

    Georgia Carter gasped, and dropped a tray of plastic curlers. Her boss, Pauline Stout, looked round quickly. Her jaw dropped. Colin Haworth had just come into Sloane Square Salon. Over near the door Kristel Melly, their receptionist, assistant sweeper-up and occasional model, was just sitting behind her counter with her mouth open.

    “Pick those up, Georgia,” said Pauline in a weak voice. She glared at Kristel but to no effect. “Excuse me a minute, Mrs Carmichael,” she said to the lady in the chair. She hurried over to him. “Good morning, Colonel Haworth!”

    “’Morning. Colin,” he corrected, smiling feebly.

    “Of course: Colin!” beamed Pauline, wishing that thought-rays alone would shut that open gob of Kristel’s. “How can we help you?”

    “Well, uh,” he said, looking uneasily at the pink-swathed bodies of Mrs Carmichael, Mrs Kinnear, and Mrs Williamson—three of the most ladylike retirees from the northern side of the High Street, in fact from Lime Walk and Albert Street themselves—“you do do gents as well as ladies, do you, Pauline?”

    “Of course!” she beamed, not revealing that so far they’d only had Mr Horton from up the top of Upper Mill Lane, who was a neighbour of Georgia’s family and let Georgia practise on him, so they more than owed him one, and young Harry Potter, who’d wanted his shock of brown curls turned into a modern, spiky effect. They’d done it—well, custom was custom—but Isabel was reliably reported to have thrown a fit at the sight of it. “We can fit you in now, if you’re free.”

    “I’m usually free,” said Colin with a grin. “Well, thanks very much. Uh—well, all-over trim, really,” he said, touching the beard gingerly. “Um, shampoo and so forth?”

    “Mm, no problem!” agreed Pauline, smiling and nodding hard. “Kristel!” she said sharply.

    Kristel jumped and her mouth snapped shut. “Um, yes, Pauline?” she then said weakly.

    “I’ll give Colonel Haworth a trim myself,” said Pauline, deliberately using his surname in the faint hope of intimating to Kristel that she wasn’t best pleased with her, “so just see who else I’ve got booked in this morning, would you?”

    “Um… Mrs Hartley-Fynch.,” revealed Kristel. “Shampoo, style and set.”

    “Georgia can do her,” said Pauline briskly.

    “But she’s got Molly Howell booked!” she gasped.

    “Then Mrs Hartley-Fynch’ll just have to wait,” said Pauline grimly. Mrs Hartley-Fynch had been coming to them ever since she moved to the village, true. Also true, she had never been known to tip anyone in her life, not even when they’d done her a really, really nice style for a friend’s grandchild’s christening. Added to which she’d had her hair done in Portsmouth for her youngest son’s wedding.

    “Um, yes,” said Kristel uncertainly. “Okay.”

    “Just show Colonel Haworth to a basin, would you, Kristel?” said Pauline firmly: she had no intention of letting him change his mind and bolt, now she’d got him. “I’ll be with you in a minute, Colin!”

    Meekly Kristel got up and, tottering in the very high heels she wore when she was doing receptionist, led Colin over to a pink plastic basin. “The chairs are a bit low,” she apologised.

    “That’s okay.”

    “Would you like a magazine?” said Kristel hopefully.

    Nearby the pink-swathed body under the drier was clutching a magazine, but funnily enough not reading it: staring at him avidly. If he didn’t take a magazine was the alternative to stare back? Colin accepted a magazine. Kristel thought he’d like Country Life, so he agreed nicely. It was all of four years old and featured an article with pics about the dump Uncle Matthew had bought with some of the moolah from his ruddy merchant bank, but that was par for the course. The platinum receptionist didn’t remark on it: possibly she hadn’t read the thing.

    Pauline finished off Mrs Carmichael’s set rapidly. Rapid though she was, however, Georgia and Kristel both came up to her as she worked and offered to do Colin’s shampoo. To which Pauline replied grimly: “Mrs Kinnear doesn’t look finished to me. Or did that course on colouring you did in Portsmouth stop halfway through?” And: “Have you ever shampooed a man with a beard before, Kristel? Then don’t be silly. Just sweep up those wisps, would you?” Of course Kristel then had to retire behind her receptionist’s counter and change out of the high-heels she wore as receptionist and into the flat scuffs she wore as sweeper-up, thus taking twice as long to do the job, but at least she didn’t argue about it. They’d had a string of unsatisfactory receptionists who’d thought themselves much too good to do sweeper-up before her. Added to which, it wouldn’t have occurred to her to threaten to sue them if she’d volunteered to let them use her as a model and it had gone wrong. As had been the case with one disastrous older woman they’d tried. Kristel was young, she was willing, she wasn’t hoity-toity, she had no family responsibilities to call her away from work at inconvenient moments, and, in short, she was the best they could possibly get in Bellingford and they were lucky to have her. Which of course didn’t mean Pauline was going to let her get away with murder.

    Mrs Carmichael was settled under the drier with a magazine and Kristel had reluctantly—looking over her shoulder at Colin—gone out the back to get her a cup of coffee. Pauline went over to Colin and felt his hair in a professional manner. It wasn’t tinted: that colour was perfectly natural, if only you could get that in a bottle! The hair was, however, in dreadful condition: what had he been doing to it? “Have you tried a conditioner at all, Colin?”

    “Never heard of it,” he replied cheerfully.

    She took a deep breath. “There’s no reason a man shouldn’t take as good care of his hair as a woman, especially when it’s lovely hair like yours!”

    “Um, thanks.”

    “Naturally, I mean: not in its present condition,” she said grimly. “Well, we’ll just get you shampooed.”

    “Mm. Um, the beard as well?”

    “You do want it trimmed, too, do you?”

    “Yes, please,” he said meekly.

    “Right, then!” Pauline got on with it, not admitting that she’d never done a beard before. But heck, it was only hair, wasn’t it?

    “Aren’t you going to dry it?” said Colin feebly as, having rubbed his head firmly in a towel—mercifully a faded blue, not pink—she then transferred him to a different chair and began to comb him out.

    “No, we always cut wet,” said Pauline in a kindly, superior tone.

    “Oh. I don’t usually have a shampoo,” he said feebly. “Just get the barber to give it a trim.”

    “I can see that. It has been cut very professionally,” she admitted.

    “Yes, had it done in London. Place my grandfather used to go, actually!” he said with a smile. “He did offer to wash it, now I come to think of it.”

    “I see. So would that be Captain Haworth’s grandfather, too?” said Pauline chattily.

    “Uh—no. Great-uncle. My father and John’s father are cousins.”

    “I see! I didn’t think the Admiral had any brothers!” she said pleasedly.

    “No,” he agreed feebly. “Um, the beard’s grown more than I meant it to,” he said as she attacked that with her large comb. Ouch! “I, um, I suppose I didn’t really mean to let it grow… Well, it didn’t look too bad at first, I thought.”

    “No, it looked lovely when you came!” she approved, smiling. “Is that how you want it? Dear little curly wisps?”

    Colin had now gone rather red under it. “If you can,” he said on a weak note.

    “Well, it’s just like cutting hair, really, isn’t it?” she said brightly. “And wisps are really In!” She smoothed the hair under his chin with a hard hand. “You’ve got a good chin, you don’t need to hide it,” she said dispassionately. “I can get it all off if you like.”

    “Uh—better not. The thing is, I promised Anna— You do know Anna Leach, do you? Yes. I promised her she could paint me and she seems to want the beard. Only shorter.”

    “I see! Well, we can manage that for you! So she’s doing your portrait, is she?”

    “Something like that,” he said feebly.

    “Well, fancy that! I didn’t know she did portraits, Georgia Leach said she usually does abstract things. Or sort of still-lifes, I think she meant.”

    “Mm. Well, I don’t know much about art. But she can certainly draw from life.”

    “That’ll be lovely! We haven’t got many artists in the village,” she said, combing his hair into something ’orrible and staring at it in the mirror in a considering way. “Do you know Velda Cross? She’s a friend of Rosie’s.”

    “No, don’t think I’ve met her.” God, what was she envisaging? Now she was combing the beard into a—a style? A pattern?

    “Velda’s an illustrator. She does children’s books and magazines. And she paints lovely flower studies: she sells them at Le Petit Cabinet de Carole, sometimes.”

    “Sorry?”

   “The art and craft shop: you know!” urged Pauline, astounded that he didn’t.

    “Oh, yes: further up the street on the other side?”

    “Yes, past the Garden Centre,” she agreed, tucking a strip of paper round his neck and then choking him with a small towel. She replaced the giant pink shroud. “Carole’s all right,” she said tolerantly, picking up the scissors. Colin had an impulse to shut his eyes. He made a strangled noise of enquiry.

    “Well, she’s not local, but she’s not like most of them,” allowed Pauline.

    He made a strangled noise of acknowledgement.

    “And if she knows you, she’ll give you quite a good price. I got a lovely set of spice jars there—quite unusual—and a very pretty quilted cushion.” She snapped the scissors experimentally.

    Colin shut his eyes.

    Hours and hours and hours later he was done. Mrs Carmichael, Mrs Kinnear and Mrs Williamson had long since gone—though looking most reluctant to do so. Mrs Kinnear, in fact, had looked at him wistfully and said to the ambient air: “It’s taking ages, isn’t it?” Mrs Hartley-Fynch, having issued her orders to Georgia in an unbroken flow during her session, was under the drier with a magazine: not reading it, staring avidly. Molly Howell, long since finished, had simply installed herself in the waiting area with a cup of coffee. Georgia had now embarked on an extremely elaborate tinting operation for a younger woman—a villager, Colin had deduced from the chummy way they addressed each other. It seemed to involve endless applications of muck, and there had been a definite rubber bathing cap in there at one point. Her first name was Kathleen, but no-one had mentioned her surname. The other young woman who had come in with her, made an appointment for herself and departed to do her shopping, was now sitting in the waiting area next to Molly, watching avidly.

    “There!” said Pauline proudly.

    “Hurray!” cried Molly Howell from the waiting area, clapping her hands.

    “Ace!” approved Georgia, hurriedly shoving Kathleen under a drier and coming to breathe down his martyred neck.

    “Ooh, it’s gorge-ous!” cried Kathleen, readjusting the drier.

    “It looks great. Thanks very much, Pauline,” said Colin feebly.

    “You’re welcome!” she beamed.

    He was finally allowed to escape. Though Kristel firmly made an appointment for him for two weeks’ time: a style like that needed to be kept in shape! He got out of it to the sound of Kathleen’s friend saying in awed tones to Mrs Howell: “I could of sworn it was tinted! And it isn’t even thin on top! What it’ll be, see, his grandfather must of had a good head of hair, I mean his mother’s mother, ’cos the Captain’s bald, so it can’t be on his side!”

    So he owed it to Grandfather Duff-Ross? The only good thing he’d ever had from that side! –If it was good. He felt, frankly, exhausted, and abandoning some vague idea of doing some shopping, crept home and make himself a cuppa.

    In Sloane Square Salon the staff compared notes. He’d tipped Pauline ten quid! And Kristel had got a fiver, just for showing him to his basin and bringing him magazines and coffee!

    “Gee, wish I’d of done him,” sighed Georgia.

    Oddly enough no-one offered to let her give him his trim or bring him his coffee next time.

    “I don’t mean just for the tips,” she said sadly. “Couldn’t I at least shampoo him next time, Pauline?”

    Pauline looked lofty. “Maybe. Only if I let you do him, will you go straight off and apply for a job in Portsmouth on the strength of having experience doing men?”

    “No!” she cried angrily. “I wasn’t thinking of that at all!”

    “I believe you!” said Molly Howell with a deep chuckle. “Sexy, isn’t he? Ta for letting me watch, dears—better be off, Graham’ll be moaning about his slave not being there to make ’is ruddy lunch. See ya later!” She exited, grinning.

    The hairdressers were rather red.

    “’Tisn’t that at all!” said Kristel valiantly.

    Pauline cleared her throat. “No. Well, he isn’t gay, I’ll give ya that. –Go on, Georgia, you better grab your lunch while you can.”

    Georgia disappeared. Kathleen’s friend, ascertaining she wouldn’t be dry for ages, also disappeared. Pauline checked Mrs Hartley-Fynch—she’d always refuse to have it on hot, then she’d complain it was taking ages—and pointed Kristel in the direction of several trays of curlers and clips that needed tidying. Kristel began to sort them out very slowly…

    Peace descended on Sloane Square Salon. Pauline wandered over to the plate-glass window and stared out at the windy High Street and an exciting view of Mr Knight from up Linden Walk, complete with Benjie the beagle, heading for the Bakery to get his fresh rolls for lunch. He was late, today. “Yeah…” she said on a sigh.

    “A spit?” said Colin feebly.

    Terri nodded hard, looking at him eagerly. “Euan thinks it would be possible, and I have seen meat cooked that way in Spain!”

    “Uh—help. Hang on, I’ll ring John. He might know of someone who does ironwork.”

    His cousin replied with his usual calm to his strange enquiry: “You could ask Jack Powell: he can turn his hand to most things. Failing that, Ms Deane Jennings may know a blacksmith, those frightful hinges on the door of The Church didn’t magic themselves out of thin air.”

    “Yes; I’ll ask her.”

    “Mm. Er—there could be quite a demand hereabouts for ironwork of various sorts,” he murmured.

    “I’ll tell Jack.”

    The phone was silent for a moment. Then his cousin said drily: “Do that.”

    Colin swallowed. “John, I’m no sort of hand at art and craft!”

    “You’re a manager, though,” he said tranquilly. “Mrs Granville Thinnes was making noises last time I bumped into her about an arts centre—why not talk to her?”

    “The woman’s supposed to be the very worst of the in-comers!” he cried.

    “Condemning without a hearing, Colin!” said John with a laugh in his voice.

    “Yeah. Oh, hang on, talking of Jack Powell, wasn’t there a rumour of truckloads of firewood?”

    “Is that bloody dump getting too cold for you?” replied his cousin grimly.

    Colin reddened. “No. But Terri and I would rather fancy a nice log fire.”

    “Well, I have spoken to Jack. But unlike most of his wares, firewood doesn’t fall off the backs of trucks all that often. Don’t worry, he’ll be getting in touch with his secret supplier.”

    Colin thanked him and rang off, shaking his head. An arts centre? God!

    Somehow, though, he found himself next day wandering over to Le Petit Cabinet de Carole and staring into its window. What was it Pauline had bought here? Spice jars? He peered. There were certainly several racks of them. Mostly decorated with small frills of that pink checked stuff. Doddsy had had kitchen curtains in the blue variety. Uh—gingham! “Gingham,” he said under his breath.

    “Quite cottagey, of course, but personally I prefer something rather more authentic,” said an ’orribly gracious voice. Colin jumped ten feet where he stood. “Good morning, Colonel Haworth!” she added graciously. “How lovely to see you again!”

    Er—mm. As opposed to the time they’d met in the Superette. Colin had not requested an introduction and Belinda certainly hadn't volunteered one. “Good morning, Mrs Granville Thinnes,” he croaked. “I was just looking at the spice jars.”

    “Of course: your nice little Spanish au pair no doubt uses all sort of wonderful herbs and spices!”

    “Um, yes. I was wondering who makes them, actually,” he said feebly.

    “Carole tells me the pottery ones come from a woman on the far side of Portsmouth. Quite nice, but I have to say it, nothing special. The ones with the gingham trim are just commercially available jars, decorated locally: Carole does some herself but she has several women who produce work for her: quite a little cottage industry!” she smiled.

    “Yes,” he said weakly, the more so as she pronounced the proprietor’s name “Ca-role,” rhyming it with, uh, soul, in the same way as Pauline had. Well, that was certainly telling him. “I—uh—I was wondering about ironwork, Mrs Granville Thinnes.”

    “My dear Colonel Haworth, if only we did have a blacksmith! But all the old crafts have long since disappeared: the people just are not interested in anything outside a factory job in Portsmouth.” She shook her head. “No enterprise. One theory is that it’s been bred out, of course,” she added darkly. “The cottagers with enterprise have long since emigrated to the colonies. Why, I was reading in The Sunday Times just the other day about a wealthy American called Bellinger—and that, you know, is a very common name in these parts!—who owns a whole fleet of luxury boats in Florida! That is where all our English enterprise has gone to! The people remaining have no interest in anything outside their blessed ‘telly.’” She shook her head, sighing. “It’s quite impossible to motivate them—quite. And believe me, I have tried!”

    Colin had actually heard the quotes round telly: he winced. “Mm. Um, John was saying you mentioned an idea for an arts centre?”

    She brightened ’orribly. “Why, yes! We do have some very talented people living here, you know! Mrs Cross—do you know her?” He shook his head and she said with a nastily coy laugh: “Not one of the cottagers! A delightful young woman: her husband is one of Captain Haworth’s own former officers. She’s a professional artist, but in addition to her illustrative work she does the most delightful flower studies; a real grasp of botanical detail! She has sold some here, but between you and me,”—disparaging glance at Carole’s pink window—“they’re really far too good for it! Then Mrs Kitchener, Mrs Walshe and young Mrs Gordon—another young Navy wife!” she smiled, “have a little quilting bee every week: they’re in Hammer Street.” He must have looked as blank as he felt because she added: “Off Dipper Street, just a little further up than Medlars Lane, but on the other side. Quite a nice area.”

    Colin smiled palely. “Mm.”

    “And then, there’s Mr Dillon, who does the most exquisite tapestry work! Extremely knowledgeable indeed: my husband and I saw a wonderful example of stumpwork in a museum and just happened to mention it him, and he showed us some of the very valuable pieces he was restoring and then out of the goodness of his heart produced a really marvellous copy for us! We were thrilled! And of course he completely refused payment! We were quite overcome.”

    So was Colin: with the desire to ask if old G.T. had given him a brace of pheasant in return. He had to swallow. “Mm. I wasn’t quite thinking along those luh—”

    “Oh, but his own work is quite different! The most delightful modern designs: quite glowing colours! Not what you’d expect at all!”—He’d expect lovely pictures of pussies, doggies and thatched cottages like Number 26 Church Lane, frankly. He tried to nod nicely.—“Of course he normally sells in London, but if one could attract the right custom, his works would be such an asset; and he would be very keen to support anything that might promote Bellingford!”

    Colin was now wondering how the Hell he could escape without being downright rude. He didn’t believe a word of this last, particularly not that the tapestry worker sold in London, but she’d certainly hit the nail on the head with her point about the right custom. She rattled on. There was a leather-worker, a point-lace maker—ye gods!—a woman who crocheted cobweb-fine woollen shawls—actually that was quite interesting, Ma might like one—a spinner, a weaver…

    “A what?” he croaked.

    She smiled smugly. “A bottomer! A chair-bottomer, Colonel Haworth: a very old and honourable trade!”

    “Uh—rush bottoming?”

    Wrong, it was his friend who did that. The bottomer hand-hewed wooden chair bottoms out of old hunks of timber with an adze. Colin’s mouth opened and shut silently.

    Now she was claiming it was the true derivation of the name Bottom Street, though of course the villagers— Balls! The villagers were right: it was the lowest street in the place!

    “Yes. I think I might get some spice jars; Terri really does need something to keep her bits and bobs in. Do excuse me. Lovely to have had a chat.” He escaped while she was still trilling goodbyes and assurances that they must get together for a real talk…

    The thin blonde woman who served him was, presumably, Carole herself. The place certainly didn’t seem to be getting much custom: there was no-one else in there. He bought a set of pottery jars for Terri: why not? Rough brown glazed ware, inscribed in an unlikely Italic script “Thyme,” “Sage,” “Cloves” and so on.

    The pink motif of the window was carried through to the interior of the shop: perhaps it was a deliberate marketing ploy. One of the objects on display was a large quilt, on the wall. He had a closer look at it while Carole was carefully packing the jars. It was beautiful work: hand-sewn—but oh, dear, it was ’orribly pink! Fairly pale, but there was so much of it! Terri’s bed could do with a nice warm coverlet, but—No. He thought of the way she’d described Anna’s painting style, and cringed.

    “It’s beautifully made, isn’t it?” said Carole.

    “Yes, it is. Would you have any more quilts?”

    She brightened. “Yes, I’ve got quite a few! I don’t usually put them all out: there isn’t really very much market for them, to tell you the truth. The ladies hereabouts who are interested in that sort of thing make their own, you see.”

    This was precisely and exactly what Colin would have supposed. The village where Ma and Pa lived was also full of genteel lady quilters.

    Carole produced great armfuls of quilts and started spreading them out for him. Some of them were really wonderful. A Mrs Palmer came in and helped him look at them…

    Colin was very tempted by the one in what Mrs Palmer claimed was the “Log Cabin” pattern: the thing was basically rows of large squares, laid out in a regular grid, but each square was composed of a multitude of tiny strips, the creator somehow managing to use their colours in such a way that, when you stood back, you saw that superimposed on the grid was a large design of two dark concentric diamonds, right across the width of the quilt. He thought perhaps it might have too many colours in it for Terri’s taste, though they were used very tastefully: the shades in the lighter, background squares being mainly soft fawns, greys, blues and peaches, and those of the darker diamonds tending more towards dark blue, with some deep pink and purplish shades. The dark blue was picked up again in the wide edging. Carole urged what she claimed was a “Pinwheel” design: much simpler, each square composed of dark brown and burnt orange triangles, but which Mrs Palmer thought might be “Flying Pennants.” Carole got out the book. Mrs Palmer was right. Carole urged this “Evening Star” pattern: see, it had the orange and the brown—that quilt-maker was fond of those shades—but white as well! Colin couldn’t see it at first but then, as Mrs Palmer stepped back and he followed suit, he got it. Each square was about nice inches across, and divided into four, the sets of opposing smaller squares being either plain or diagonally divided into triangles: that was what he’d seen, initially. But he’d been looking at the trees, not the whole wood: the star design was actually composed of four of these large squares, making a very large star, or possibly flower, with a big square orange centre, white triangles of petals, and a brown edging. The quilt itself was edged with more of the orange. “It’s very clever!” he said with a laugh. Highly encouraged. Mrs Palmer began explaining more ways in which the squares of the basic patterns might be used…

    “Oh, my God!” he gulped, as Carole spread out a striking offering in red, white and grey: “that’s my kitchen lino!”

    “Heavenly Steps,” said Mrs Palmer complacently. “Rhomboids and squares, you see, Colonel Haworth. Quite hard to cut, but very easy to work out.”

    “Are you a quilter yourself, Mrs Palmer?” he asked with a smile.

    She was, and this was one of hers, as a matter of fact, but she didn’t sell very much here, there simply wasn’t the custom. She explained where she did sell…

    He emerged from the shop with the spice jars, the Log Cabin quilt, and the dark brown and burnt orange Flying Pennants: he’d give Terri her choice and use the other on his own bed. And with the inner conviction that, if Carole was right in saying that patchwork appealed to those with very organised minds, he was not wrong in thinking that it must also appeal to the maniacally determined: there must be thousands of tiny stitches in each quilt, and in the Log Cabin one, tens of thousands, with all those inch-wide, hand-sewn strips. The effect was charming, but all that work when you were not stuck out in the middle of the Prairies with no resources except your old rags and your ingenuity? And charming though it was, the result was, in the end, no more than craft.

    Terri was overwhelmed by the gifts and accepted the Log Cabin quilt rapturously. Colin could see that they weren’t her colours at all, but never mind, it wasn’t as if she had to wear it. And he was very happy with the simple brown and orange triangles of Flying Pennants.

    “Terri,” he said, as they relaxed that evening before the electric fire—there was no sign of Jack and the logs—“do you know a Mrs Humboldt, from Medlars Lane?”

    “Yes. She lives at Number 4, the stone cottage opposite Medlar Cottage. She is a retired librarian. A small lady with very white hair in a bun on the top of her head.” She hesitated.

    “What?” said Colin mildly.

    Terri bit her lip. “She eats a lot of fish.”

    “Oh? A bit of a mania, is it?’

    “Yes, but as well as that, she and her cottage both smell of fish!” she gulped.

    Colin grinned “Got it. I think she does very fine crochetwork, is that right? Cobweb-fine woollen shawls?”

    “Yes, very beautiful, but I have to say it, one would need to hang them in the fresh air for a long time before using them.”

    Colin’s shoulders shook for some time. “Got it!” he gasped. “Well, if I buy one for Ma now and air it until Christmas, do you think?”

    “Air it—yes. And possibly have it dry-cleaned, if it still smells. I do not think one would risk washing it.”

    “Right.”

    So the following day he got on over to Medlars Lane. He had a feeling as he knocked at Number 4’s rather shabby front door that eyes were boring into his back…

    Mrs Humboldt and her cottage did smell of fish. On the whole Colin didn’t know whether he’d rather have been forewarned or not. She had a selection of gossamer-fine shawls, and he chose one, allowing her to parcel it up and not mentioning that it was going to be unwrapped.

    In the dim little front passage he hesitated. Little old Mrs Humboldt looked up at him enquiringly. “Uh—you know Mrs Granville Thinnes, do you, Mrs Humboldt?” he said feebly.

    Her bright little eyes twinkled. “Of course, Colonel Haworth. One has to get on with one’s neighbours, you know!”

    “Yeah,” he said, sagging. “Do you think she’s watching from behind her front curtains?”

    “Only if she’s home,” said Mrs Humboldt primly.

    Colin shook all over for some time. “Oh, Lor’!” he gasped. “We had a lovely chat only yesterday. She seems convinced I’m vitally interested in her idea for an arts centre.”

    “It wouldn’t work,” said the little old woman calmly. “Perhaps she could scrape up enough exhibits, but the people who are interested in that sort of thing are the people who make the artefacts, round here. There’d be very little custom. And an arts centre alone is not enough to bring in day-trippers. –That’s leaving aside entirely the question of whether the villagers want day-trippers.”

    “Mm, that’s what I thought. Pity The Church is such a damned travesty. That only leaves a few scattered cottages and the ersatz delights of the half-timbered pub, doesn’t it?”

    “There are quite a number of cottages in original—or near-original--condition,” said Mrs Humboldt on a dry note. “But, as you say, scattered. The solution could be a tour, I suppose. Old cottages of Bellingford, with a genuine Devonshire tea and a visit to the arts centre.”

    “Yes,” he said weakly.

    “Though it’s my understanding that in such arrangements the tour operator has a vested interest in the Devonshire teas and the arts centre,” she added on a detached note.

    In spite of the fish Colin found he really liked her. He grinned. “Yeah! Well—uh—talk Graham Howell and the Stouts into combining to provide ’em?”

    “Graham would be quite keen, I think,” she said in her silvery little detached voice. “But Belinda and Murray Stout have their heads firmly in the sand, and the boy’s interests lie elsewhere.”

    “Yes. You were a librarian, I think, Mrs Humboldt? May I ask where you worked?”

    “A great many places, Colonel Haworth, ranging from Zimbabwe—it was Rhodesia back then—to Aberdeenshire. I drove a book van up there: that was fun. My last position was at the Bodleian.”

    That figured, thought Colin, nodding

    “But I dislike modern Oxfordshire. I settled here to escape precisely the sort of over-careful gentrification that’s overtaken it in the last forty years or so. I don’t deny I feel the tide lapping round my feet, however,” she said drily. “–I’d suggest you nip through my back yard, but if she saw you come in, I’m afraid that wouldn’t work.”

    He grinned ruefully, agreed, thanked her again for the shawl and got as far as one step into the lane before Ma G.T. shot out of her faultless cottage and grabbed him with all her talons.

    It was a full hour before he escaped. He’d agreed they need an arts or cultural centre. He’d agreed that the project needed Leadership. He hadn't disagreed that the villagers, en masse, were spineless. Well, she hadn't named any names, so he didn’t feel too guilty. He’d agreed that the nicer sort of American tourist would greatly appreciate Bellingford’s genuine 17th- and 18th-century cottages. Not mentioning Luke Beaumont’s reaction to the same. He’d agreed that the very talented people who had settled here should be encouraged not to take their work out of the district. Not asking if she included the chair-bottomer in the category because he was quite sure she did. He’d agreed that Enterprise and Hard Work were what was needed, not asking if these were in addition to Leadership. Or how she proposed marketing the fucking thing. In short, he’d agreed with everything and had actually been rewarded with two cups of Earl Grey and two shortbread biscuits which he would have taken his dying oath were out of the assortment that the Stouts sold. Though Mrs Granville Thinnes’s Royal Doulton plate contained only shortbread biscuits. Six: that worked out at two each but Mr G.T., coming in rather after the fair, hadn't dared to take a second. He did finally escape but only at the age of eighty-two, stone deaf and befuddled.

    He made two stops on the way home. The first was at Le Petit Cabinet de Carole. “Carole,” he said, the moment the greetings and enquiries after the quilts’ and jars’ reception were over, “please enlighten me before I go mad! That quilt in your book that’s called ‘Flock of Geese’: how in God’s name can it be interpreted as looking like a flock of geese?”

    Smiling a little, Carole got the book and opened it at the requisite page. Right: a selection of large and small triangles—a quartered square, the opposite corners containing either two or eight triangles. The example was in black and a dull apricot, rather nice. They were, of course, right-angled triangles, the hypotenuses running from the bottom left hand corner of the squares to the top right. He had remembered it correctly. The only possible resemblance it bore to geese was their beaks: black beaks facing left.

    “It’s the wrong way round,” she said placidly, giving the book a ninety-degree turn.

    Colin stared at it, frowning. The black beaks now pointed in the direction of down: that was potty. Oh! Black flags of goose wings, against an apricot sky!

    “See?” she said, smiling.

    “Yes,” he agreed limply. “Bless you, Carole!”

    Carole went rather pink, and laughed. “You’re welcome! It’s used in lots of ways, but I really like it when it’s like this, so that it does look like a flock of migratory geese. We had one lovely example, with the goose wings black, like this, and the background colours shading from a very pale green at the top through lilac and apricot, and then out to grey at the bottom: like an evening sky. But it was snapped up very quickly, I’m afraid.” She smiled. “By Commander Haworth, as a matter of fact.”

    “Terence?” he croaked.

    “Yes. He was passing with the Captain’s Tim and rushed in and bought it on the spot.”

    Colin thought of Terence’s unspeakably glossy bachelor pad, and swallowed.

    After that he was just about capable of staggering over to the Superette and asking Belinda how many shortbread biscuits there were in the assortments.

    The cheaper assortment had four and the nicer one, with the little round coconut biscuits, had six. And she could get him in some nice packets of shortbread, it’d be no trouble, there was an order going in to the wholesalers this coming Friday!

    “Thanks very much, Belinda. That’d be lovely.” He looked at her pleasant, friendly face, and burst out: “Mrs Granville Thinnes dragged me in for elevenses and she offered a plate of shortbread biscuits—six of them—and I was positive they were the ones from the assortment!”

    “You could have just asked me which assortment she buys,” she said placidly.

    “I’m brain-dead,” he groaned.

    And he staggered home to a miraculous thick soup with dried beans and chunks of putative beef bone and hunks of putative spiced sausage and a bit of, uh, pork rind? Never mind, it was wonderful, it had all sorts of veg in it too, and in short, if she continued to feed him like this for the next three thousand years he might yet end up feeling halfway human!

    “You did know Mrs Granville Thinnes is reputed to have that effect,” said Terri severely.

    “Don’t laugh at me, I’m in a very weakened state,” he whispered. “Just bring me a coffee with a belt of whisky in it, please.”

    “Very well, but it will just be for the once,” said his au pair severely.

    Colin leaned back in his chair, grinning.

    “Hullo,” he said groggily, waking to find Euan looking doubtfully at him from the sitting-room doorway. Why was he here at crack of dawn? “You looking for Terri?”

    “No, she’s long since given me ma breakfast,” he said with a smile.

    Colin sat up, blinking. Christ, ten-thirty! “It’s the bloody pills,” he admitted, running his hand through his hair: “knock me for six. What can we do you for?”

    “I’m actually here about wood.”

    Colin closed his eyes for a moment. “The continuing story. Bloody Jack Powell. Do not ask me what he’s up to—”

    “No, no, he’s delivered it!” He paused. “A cord each,” he said, swallowing.

    “What?”

    “Aye. I had no idea how much it’d be. We usually had a coal fire, at home. The thing is, Jack’s disappeared again, and, uh, well, I’ve brought one in to show you.” He went into the passage, to return with a giant log. About eighteen inches in diameter, and two feet long.

    “Jumping Jehosophat, is the man barmy?”

    “I’d say he’s under the impression we both own an axe. They’re all about this size.”

    Colin bit his lip. He’d be up for a bit of wood-chopping, but a cord of the stuff? Even if he did put most of his weight on his right leg—

    “I’ll do it, Colin, but have you got an axe?”

    “No. Do you know how to split logs?” said Colin feebly.

    “I do, but I also know ma Uncle Fergus—he wisna really an uncle, he was ma Aunty Jean’s brother-in-law—would say the job canna be done wi’oot the proper tool!”

    “Was he a farmer?” said Colin, smiling.

    “Och, no! Chance’d be a fine thing! He was a storeman and packer, when he had a job. He raised free-range chickens in his wee back garden: it was crammed with produce. He had a rattly wee van that he used to drive out into the countryside to get wood. Looking back, possibly to steal wood,” he said with a grin.

    “In that case, you probably know more than I do. Tell you what: John’s got an axe.”

    “But Yvonne might be there,” said Euan in a high, silly, voice. “She’ll look at me as if I was a beetle!”

    Colin grinned. “Yeah, she is that sort—salt of the earth, if you like it over-salted. We’d better try the ironmongery. I’ll come with you, once I’ve had my coffee.”

    “Coffee and a Spanish omelette is the order I was given,” said Euan drily.

    “Where is she?” he said feebly.

    “Giving old Granville Thinnes a hand with putting new wire on his pheasant coops, and before you say anything, we agreed that she’d do it in a spirit of complete hypocrisy in the verra faint hope of getting a brace of pheasant out of the old skinflint!”

    “Right,” he said, unwinding himself from the bedding. “It’s very kind of you, Euan, but you really don’t have to feed me.”

    “You’re joking,” he said unemotionally, going out.

    Colin got up, smiling.

    … Sweet Christ, the man really could cook! Or had Terri trained him? He admitted she had given him a few tips, but he was largely self-taught.

    Colin just ate it gratefully. Tiny bits of chopped potato, deliciously fried, was there a touch of garlic in there, and, um, herbs? Well, ambrosia for the mouth—yes.

    Jim Potter’s jaw dropped when they came into the shop together. Had the village imagined they were at each other’s throats over Terri’s services, or— Never mind. He had two axes. So-called.

    “We dinna want a wee hatchet, I’m afraid, Jim,” said Euan, very drily indeed.

    “No,” croaked Jim, goggling, as he cautiously tested the edge of the other with his thumb.

    “I’ll buy it, and what’s more I’ll lock it in ma cottage: you needn’t imagine you’re going to split logs behind ma back,” he said as Colin tried to out with the wallet.

    Colin just gave in and watched feebly as Euan offered Jim a piece of plastic that he’d apparently never seen before. No, correction, seen once.

    “Mr Arvidson, he had one of these,” he said feebly. “Only ever seen ’im the once. They’ve had that huge place up Albert Street for—uh—be over seven years, now.”

    “Try this,” said Euan, handing him a humble Visa card allee same like Colin’s. “I put all ma second-hand furniture on it: may be over the limit.”

    Feebly Jim accepted it, and they exited with Euan carrying the giant axe.

    Back at the cottages Colin looked limply at the huge, nay gigantic, heaps of wood now occupying all of his front yard, all of Anna’s front yard, and a considerable amount of the footpath. How had he not heard this lot being dumped? Bugger those bloody pills, no wonder he felt fuzzy after taking the fucking things!

    “Did Anna order some, too?” asked Euan, stripping his anorak off.

    “Dunno,” he croaked. “Uh—well, she’s pretty broke, don't think those gallery places cough up until they’ve actually sold the stuff. John might have ordered some for her, though.”

    “Aye, well, I’ll chop some for her and some for you.”

    “Thanks,” he said feebly. “Um, like a cuppa?”

    “In a wee bit,” he said, scientifically selecting a huge log as the chopping block, setting another log on it, upright, and setting to.

    Colin watched numbly for a while. Jack hadn't left any room for stacking the split logs. Well, possibly at the sides of the cottages, but you couldn’t get to the sides, for logs.

    The racket of wood chopping apparently alerted the artist: she emerged, blinking, in her dressing-gown. Her jaw dropped, so she must have slept through the delivery, too.

    Euan paused. “Chopping some for you, don’t worry!”

    “But it’s not mine!” she gasped.

    “John will have ordered some for you, Anna,” said Colin firmly as Euan fell to again. He scratched the beard a bit. Finally he began setting split logs neatly along the side of his path. That left about a foot on which to walk. Oh, well.

    Anna had gone inside, presumably to dress, and Colin had got into quite a rhythm of stacking, really, when an annoyed voice said: “I dunno what you think you’re doing, but keep on doing it, if yer wanna spend another six months in ’ospital!”

    Colin straightened carefully. “Hullo, Bob,” he said sheepishly. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

    “Laid orf,” replied the burly, unshaven Bob Potter sourly.

    “Shit, I’m sorry, Bob.”

    “Yeah, me too,” he said sourly. “I’ll do that.” He came and wrenched a teeny, weeny piece of wood out of Colin’s nerveless hand.

    “You can make us a cuppa, now, Colin!” said Euan, grinning.

    Feebly Colin tottered inside to take up his humble rôle.

    Oh, really! When he got back with the tea, Anna was stacking, too!

    “Look,” he said feebly as the workers slurped tea, “logistically, wouldn’t it be better—”

    “Fuck off,” replied Euan, grinning.

    “Yeah, fuck orf,” agreed Bob gratefully.

    “Yeah, we don’t want logistic stuff, Colin,” explained Anna. “This is only Bellingford, not the fossil fuel arena!” She went into a gale of giggles.

    “Not witty,” said Colin sourly, giving up entirely and going inside.

    His sister, Viola, had rung yesterday: chiefly to harangue him, as far as he could see. More or less in self-defence, Colin had told her about the shawl he’d got for Ma and Le Petit Cabinet de Carole’s quilts, and she’d put in her order for the red, white and grey Heavenly Steps. He’d got her to admit it was for herself and after further argument got her to agree it could be her Christmas present. God! Relatives! Well, he might as well go up there and buy it. He went out, forced them all to admit they didn’t need anything from the shops and, taking the line of least resistance, took the car. The easy way; up Moulder’s Way and Harriet Burleigh Street, then right, into the top of the High Street, thus enabling him to park outside the arts and crafts shop. Funnily enough there was no competition for parking space, just there.

    Carole was again alone in the shop and went very pink at the sight of him. No, the Heavenly Steps quilt hadn’t been sold. Eagerly she got it out for him and demonstrated its glories. It was nice to be wanted, actually: Colin found he was telling her quite a bit about Viola and bloody Clive and the horrors they’d inflicted on what had been quite a pleasant late Victorian vicarage, before the Church had sold it and combined four parishes… Carole responded with the horror tale about their parish. Christ, officially part of an outer Portsmouth parish? No wonder the locals were all heathens! There was a church service, every so often—maybe once a month? Down in the community hall. Colin was looking blank so she explained that this facility was located behind the High Street, on that flat land just off Bottom Street.

    “Damp,” he translated drily.

    That was right, and there was no access from the High Street, you had to take the turnoff from George Street. Um, well, the villagers didn’t use it much, no. There had been a Scout troop, that was back when Harry Potter and Terry Stout were younger, only there weren’t enough boys of the right age, any more. The W.I. used it—mainly retirees, actually. Mrs Granville Thinnes—Colin drew a deep breath: he was starting to get very, very sick of that name—had tried to start an Over-Sixties Club but none of the villagers had wanted to join.

    “Understandable,” he said drily, and Carole collapsed in giggles. Somehow he found he was saying that since he had to get across to Portsmouth later this afternoon he thought he’d have a meal over there, and would she care to join him? She was terrifically pleased—terrifically. Possibly it was a mistake. But she was a pleasant woman in her early forties, unattached—divorced, according to Belinda, Pauline and Isabel, all of whom approved of her—and why not? He wasn’t a hermit, he only felt like one!

    Back at Moulder’s Way he felt like a parasite as well as a hermit. Euan had split immense amounts of wood, and, logistics or not, someone had cleared patches under his front windows and Anna’s front windows and stacked the split logs there. He tottered inside. No sign of occupancy but a huge notice on his kitchen table which said in black, uh, charcoal? All right, charcoal: “DON'T TRY TO LIGHT THE FIRE, CHIMNEYS NEED SWEEPING. WE ARE OVER AT BOB’S. Anna.” And, in a different scrawl, “Euan.” He turned over. A sketch, scribbled out, of Euan chopping. He tottered over the road.

    They were there, all right, eating a lunch of chips and tinned corned beef, washed down with a choice of beer or instant coffee. Euan winked at him. Limply he sat down on one of Bob’s sagging mauve armchairs—the suite was very comfortable but the mauve took you aback, until you got used to it—and cast his vote for beer. Once he’d got round his share of the chips and bully beef he felt strong enough to ask if there was a chimney sweep in Bellingford. Guess what the answer was? Jack Powell. Yeah, well.

    The errand to Portsmouth that afternoon was to the chemist, for more painkillers, since that had been the last of them last night. As he was there, he bought some condoms. Not because he really thought— But then, Be Prepared. He had been a Boy Scout, after all. The dinner at an unassuming little restaurant was very pleasant. He had one glass of wine and Carole had three and got every giggly indeed, and finished the meal with an Irish coffee, getting even gigglier. On the way home she told him all about some film she’d seen and allowed him to put his hand on her thigh. Promising. When they got to her cottage she allowed him to kiss her in the car. And to slide his hand even further up the thigh, in fact she gave a shriek and a mad giggle. Then inviting him in for coffee. Well, why not? Since it was on offer. Colin went in. The cottage was so dinkified that he almost turned tail and ran. Tiny china ornaments everywhere, frills on everything, including some places that he wouldn’t have believed could be frilled: the pelmets? Good grief! And strangely-shaped bottles used as ornaments or lampshades: he hadn't since that since his very early twenties. Carole’s bottles were souvenirs of her trips, and she had drunk the contents, yes! With a mad giggle. She then produced a full one, instead of coffee. And they had a couple, sitting on the frilled sofa very close together, with Colin’s free arm round her shoulders. Then he kissed her. Carole kissed him back with great enthusiasm, so he slid his hand right up her thigh and kissed her again, suggesting that the tights might come down, bit like the stalactites. She gave a mad giggle, so he took that as consent.

    There had been ladies in his past, though his word for them would have not have been “ladies”, but a hyphenated one, of which the first part was four-lettered and the second was the words “teasers”, who had stopped short at that point. But Carole didn’t. In fact she said with a breathless giggle as he managed to get a finger up there and the other hand into her bra: “Ooh! Um, shall we go into the bedroom, Colin?”

    They did that. The bed was deliciously warm, the electric blanket was on. Colin didn’t speculate in anticipation of what, he just warned her that the torn hip was a fairly nasty sight, took all his clothes off, took all her clothes off, registering with certain amount of regret that she was as skinny as she looked fully clad, and the bikini-line was really ’orrid, and got into the nice warm bed with her. He did warn her that if he put it in there he’d go off like a rocket, hadn't had it for ages: but Carole just gave a mad giggle and said that didn’t matter. So he pulled on a condom and did it. After that he just managed to thank her nicely and give her a come—she didn’t specify how she wanted it so he just got down there with his tongue, which seemed to suit, judging by the squeaking and the clawing of his shoulders—before going out like a light.

    In the morning he apologised abjectly for falling asleep like a clod but Carole just giggled and said that was all right! And she was sorry, but she had to open up. Eh? Oh! The shop! No, well, he certainly wouldn’t have put her down as a woman that was up for a few grubby puns, whatever else she might have been up for. Incidentally he was up for quite a bit of the other, so he showed it to her. Carole gave a mad giggle but said: “No, I really can’t, Colin, I’ll be late opening up.”

    “Aw, just a quickie?” he whined, stroking it a bit.

     She went very, very red, gave another mad giggle, and said: “Oh, well… But I’ll have to have another shower.”

    He didn’t ask if this was consent, he just pushed her onto the bed, removed the knickers and, at the very last minute remembering to use a condom, got up there and came like a rocket. “Want one?” he gasped in her ear.

    “No, ta awfully, Colin! But I’m glad you enjoyed it!” said Carole with a giggle.

    So that was all right.

    She lived, he discovered after he’d managed to have a shower, crawl into his clothes, drink a cup of her dust, and leave, some time after she’d gone to work, in Hammer Street, that quite nice area mentioned by Mrs G.T. Between Dipper Street and another street he didn’t know the name of. Hammer Street was the street where the quilting bee took place: he didn’t really have to remember that Mrs G.T. had said this, because it was about to get under way as he came down Carole’s very dinky front path (crazy-paving, filled in with tiny pieces of reddish gravel set in concrete, but with tufts of something small and dainty allowed to appear here and there in the little spaces provided for them). One young woman and one middle-aged one, laden with piles of patchwork, were being received at a cottage opposite by another middle-aged woman. They all watched avidly as he got into his converted Merc. Unfortunately it was unmistakable: a bright emerald, very possibly the only one in the British Isles. It had been a customised spray job done for a rich but eccentric customer who’d cancelled his order—Colin didn’t know whether because he’d dropped dead, the wife had vetoed it, it had been the wife’s idea and she’d changed her mind, or merely because his Arabian sheikdom had been taken over by Saddam Hussein. Anyway, it was a really excellent model and the price was extremely reasonable. Of course he’d intended to have it resprayed, once the bank balance had recovered a bit, but somehow she became “Emerald” and turned into a definite personality… Pa had told him it was conspicuous consumption at its worst and unfunny, and actually given him a pamphlet for Oxfam, while Uncle Matthew had been, more simply, unprintable, but good old Terence had thought it was funny.

    Colin and Emerald crept quietly home.

    Jack Powell turned up to sweep the chimney—unannounced—two days later. Colin wasn’t much help, but he did manage to hand him bits of rod as he worked, and to go outside and report when the brush appeared.

    “It’s gone all the way,” he reported, going back inside.

    Jack grunted. “Bit like you and Carole Jackson,” he noted.

    What? In two days, from the quayte nayce precincts of Hammer Street?

    Jack sat back on his heels, and looked at him drily. “Lynne Carter, what does for Rosie and John, she works for Mrs Gordon, over in Hammer Street, as well.”

    Colin took a deep breath. “This would be the Mrs Gordon who’s a member of the quilting bee, would it?” he returned coldly.

    Jack was unmoved. “That’s right.”

    “Look, we’re both free agents! Isn’t it our own business?” he said heatedly.

    “Not in a village,” replied Jack wryly. “And in case you were thinking you’re unique, we’ve all been there, in our time.”

    “Who, we all?” replied Colin, more loudly than he’d intended.

    Jack sucked his teeth reflectively. “Well, all the blokes that are unattached and over forty. Not counting that clutch of gays up around Belling Close, of course.”

    “Never mind the pejorative asides, who?” returned Colin angrily, very red.

    “Well, yours truly, for a start. Lasted about two months, then it dawned that there was getting to be too many dainty dinners and too many episodes of just dropping over to me cottage with the odd frilly cushion or casserole—I was round ’ere a fair bit at that stage, Steve was back from sea. And in any case I never could take a giggler and a woman that makes you do it with a towel under ’er bum to protect ’er ruddy pink sheets.” He eyed him sardonically. “Go on, tell us she never, and the village’ll ’ave a medal struck for yer.”

    Colin was again very red. The towels—also pink—had resided in the bedside cabinet. “I have encountered the phenomenon before.”

    “So’ve I, matey!” said Jack with feeling. “I dunno about you, but I tried to tell ’er that if a bloke uses a condom—”

    “Look, just shut up!”

    Jack shut up, but he went on eyeing him sardonically.

    Finally Colin said: “All right, who else, or was that just one of your exaggerations?”

    “Not much of a one. Not that there’s many unattached, ’ereabouts. Not of the right age. Well, Alan Timms, for a start. ’E was up ’er regular every leave, for a while. Until she brung ’im one too many frilled cushions and dainty chicken casseroles, too. You wouldn’t know ’im, no: he’s on Dauntless. Petty Officer. Was a C.P.O., got broke for going on a drunk when ’e busted up with ’is last wife—number three. Lives with ’is old dad, when ’e’s home. Over to Lower Mill Lane: that’s in Upper Bellingford, orf the top end of Dipper Street.”

    “Um, yes, I think I met Mr Timms at the Superette,” said Colin feebly. “A bit deaf?”

    “That’s ’im. Game old codger. Lessee. Well, that long drink of water that runs the Garden Centre, until ’is wife come back from visiting her relatives in Canada. Dessay he might of told Carole it was a separation, but the wife didn’t seem to think it was. Fred Howell: Graham’s brother, lives in Portsmouth but he was staying with them for a bit after ’e lost ’is job. You get a look at that ruddy crazy-paving path of hers?”—Colin nodded mutely.—“Yeah. Fred put that in, but it finished ’im orf. Not the work as such, he’s quite a handy bloke. No, he told me that any female what insists on concreting in the red gravel round ’er crazy-paving ain’t gonna stop short with the front path, and he didn’t fancy being concreted in, dotted with little stones, and ’eld in place for an eternity. Added to which, he couldn’t take the way she makes you stick a coaster under yer drink.”

    “You can hardly blame the woman for wanting to protect her good furniture.”

    “Hah! She did, didn’t she? No, well, you ain’t ’ad the full bit yet. It’s coasters in the front room, coasters in the bedroom—mind you, she won’t let you ’ave a beer in bed, it’s a fancy liqueur or Irish coffee—and coasters in the flaming kitchen! And that tabletop’s plasticised! And according to those what’ve done ’er in summer—”

    “Look, just shut up!”

    Relentlessly Jack pursued: “She even makes you use a coaster on the iron lace table in the garden. And don’t say Rosie’s got one, ’cos she wouldn’t know a coaster if she fell over it!”

    “Very well, I concede the coasters. But I thought she seemed a perfectly nice woman.”

    “She is. Too nice, geddit?”

    Colin got it. He gave him a sour look.

    Jack began to list the rest. “Bill Biggs. Didn’t last long, ’e drives a long-distance lorry and tried to drink beer in bed. Garry Yates. He stuck it out for quite a while, but the cushions and the pink got to ’im in the end. Pete Bellinger. Told ’im not to pick ’is nose in public. That’s about it for the locals, unless you count a knee-trembler after Ma Granville Thinnes’s idea of a Harvest Festival with Jim Carter.”

    “Not Georgia’s father?” he said weakly.

    “Georgia’s father as ever was. Plus the father of half a dozen other young Carters, not to mention three unofficial ones down Bottom Street what Christine Carter don’t know about.”

    “Oh, shut up,” said Colin tiredly.

    “All right, if you don’t wanna hear about the in-comers she done, I won’t tell yer.”

    “I think you’ve already told me about the long drink of water that runs the Garden Centre, haven’t you?”

    “Yeah. There were two more.” Colin said nothing so, possibly taking this as encouragement, he went on: “Type from down the bottom of Church Lane that thought he was gonna start a cider bar with morris dancers down on the old village green—he’s long gone.”

    “‘I wonder what happened to him,’” said Colin faintly.

    “Couldn’t get planning permission, plus and the git from the pub saw to it ’e couldn’t get a licence. ’E got on the wrong side of Ma Granville Thinnes, as well, didn’t ’elp. The other one was Mr Arvidson,” he said, looking terribly casual.

    Colin had heard that name before—quite recently. He connected it vaguely with axes. Um… “Oh! Huge place up in, um, Albert Street? Lived here for seven years and Jim Potter’s only served him once? Not a credit card he takes.”

    “That’d be right—well, surprised he’s ever served him at all: she never shops at the Superette, even for toilet paper, and Rosie’s got the st—”

    “Stats to prove it—quite.” He gave in and smiled weakly: “How did he meet Carole?”

    “You may well ask. Usually only home in the weekends, and often not then. Well, he was home, and, or so Heather Carter subsequently reported,” he said with relish, “she was abroad, having a quick holiday in Corfu. He bought something at Carole’s—forget what, think it might’ve been a patchwork quilt,”—he eyed Colin sardonically—“and the minute she got home, she made him return it. Unsuitable to go with that real Mediaeval crucifix and what Rosie calls a named recliner. Know what that is?”

    “Yeah,” said Colin weakly. “How much of this is apocryphal?”

    “None—doesn’t need to be, with types like the Arvidsons,” he said drily. “Well, the apology included taking Carole for a drink at the pub—she thinks it’s really nice, by the way—and it took off from there. Though Heather couldn’t tell me exactly why it ended,” he added sadly.

    “Yeah. Very circumstantial. Thanks.”

    Jack shrugged.

    “I’m no saint, either,” said Colin sourly.

    “Never thought you were. Thing is, in her it goes along with frills and the coas—”

    “YES! Shut up about the bloody coasters!” he shouted.

    “And the towels. You gonna gimme a hand to get this soot out of here?”

    Feebly Colin gave him a hand.

    “Just thought you better be warned,” he said, leaning on the truck.

    “Yes. Thanks, I suppose.”

    “’Course, you might like dainty chicken casseroles and frilly cushions.”

    “Jack, push off before I tell you where to put that soot!” he shouted.

    “I can’t push off, as such, but I gotta do Anna’s chimney next, so I’ll see ya.”

    “No, hang on,” said Colin feebly, “how much do I owe you?”

    Jack paused with his hand on Anna’s gate. “Nothing. John’s paying, it’s the landlord’s responsibility. Don’t argue, he’s already paid me, had a slight cash-flow problem.” He vanished into Anna’s place before Colin could decide whether or not this was a lie.

    It wasn’t until considerably later that day—after Carole had rung and invited him to dinner, nothing very special, just pot-luck, or if he preferred, she could nip over with a casserole, both of which offers he managed somehow to refuse, he hoped without hurting her feelings—that he remembered: he hadn't asked Jack if he did ironwork. Blast!

    Carole rang the next day to see if he felt like joining her for lunch. Terri was at Euan’s, but he lied and said she’d made his lunch. Then what about a drink after work? He nearly accepted—true, he had sent her a bunch of flowers, but he didn’t want her to feel he’d used her as a one-night-stand. Then some of Jack’s blather came back to him: did she mean the pub? Of course! It was very nice, a lovely atmosphere and quite refined!

    “I don’t drink there, Carole. Sorry, but a pub that doesn’t let ordinary chaps in working kit drink in its bars and refuses to serve pints is not my scene. Um—can’t make it tonight, but what about a drink in Portsmouth tomorrow?” he said feebly.

    Carole accepted rapturously, oh, dear. The drinks led to what drinks between two consenting adults usually led to. This time he didn’t stay the night, but she didn’t take this as a hint. Finally, after repeated invitations to chicken dinners and an actual visit with a couple of frilly cushions, he gave in and took off to Ma and Pa’s for a week or two. Well—long overdue, anyway.