Scandal at Six(67)

“Such a nice young man, too,” said Gran, but her face belied her.

“You don’t like him, do you, Mum?” Lois said.

“Too nice,” said Gran. “Not like that Miranda Cowgill. Now she’s really nice.”

“Seems fond of her uncle. Nice for him, as he lives alone. Now, where’s Derek, or has he given up and gone out?”



*



In the Brierley house, Betsy was leafing through a magazine, waiting for Ted to come home. She had been late to bed last evening, and had stayed in bed this morning until after he went off to work. Now she had the high tea all ready, table laid and was wearing her sexiest dress, all designed to make a good impression.

She heard the door, and put down her magazine. “Is that you, Ted?” she called.

He came into the room, took one look at her and at the table carefully laid, and said, “What have you been up to now?”

“Nothing, of course! Just thought you might like to have an attractive girl to come home to.”

“I see. Well, thanks, but no thanks. Now you can go and take off that ridiculous dress, and come down in something more comfortable. My name’s not Pettison.”

“Pity it isn’t!” Betsy said crossly. “At least he appreciates me. Says I have the figure of a girl. What do you think, Ted?” She knew she was being irritating, but a woman scorned, and all that.

“I think I have had a hard day’s work, and all I want is a nice tea and a bit of peace. Is that too much to ask? And while I’m about it, where the hell were you last night? You don’t usually work out of hours, except for Pettison, and he’s out of action in a hospital ward, with any luck.”

“Visiting a sick aunt,” she said.

“Rubbish! But forget it. What’s for tea?”



*



It so happened that last night around midnight, Dot had got out of bed to go for a pee, and had looked out at the street below. The streetlight was still on, and to her surprise, she saw a car draw up outside the Brierleys’, and Betsy get out and let herself into the house.

“My God, that woman works hard,” she had muttered, and laughed to herself. “Give me a duster and scrubbing brush anytime. You can keep your job, Betsy,” she had added. Then she thought that Betsy was a real scrubber, in a different sense, and that had made her chuckle again. When she returned to bed, another thought had struck her. Where had Betsy been? Pettison was still in hospital, and surely Ted wouldn’t have let her out so late to anyone else?

“Odd little sod, that Ted,” she had said, not for the first time, and went straight back to sleep.



*



Next morning, straight after breakfast, Lois went into her office to check her email. There it was, the one she had been expecting. It was from Miranda Cowgill, and had an attachment. She clicked on it, and up came a photograph, a close-up of a small animal, like a mouse but not like a mouse, she thought.

“Derek! Come and look! I’m in the office.”

Derek came in and peered at the screen. “Um, yes. And then again, no.”

“Just what I thought,” said Lois. “That one has the long nose, okay? But it sort of droops, whereas ours curved upwards. It’s got spindly little legs, too, that one. Isn’t it a beautiful colour? All goldeny.”

“No such word,” said Derek. “Well, if you ask me, they are some sort of exotic shrew creature. Not from this country, anyway, else I’d have seen them, excavating behind floorboards an’ that, as I do. What’re you going to do, then, gel?”

“I’ll see if Josie has had the same email, and ask her what she thinks. She saw them same as me.”

At that moment, the phone rang and it was Josie. “Mum? Have you seen it? Isn’t it sweet? But I’m not sure it’s the same as ours. Our baby elephants’ trunks curved up in a happy way, but this one points down. I’d say it was the same, but different.”

“Exactly,” said Derek. “Clever girl, our Josie.”





Thirty-eight





Halfway down the long straight track, Justin slowed the Fiat down to twenty miles an hour, and looked around him. Nothing, no hedges, no trees. As his father used to say, “Miles and miles of bugger-all!” And now his father was gone, soon to be lowered into the cold, cold ground. No more jokes, no more hair-raising stories of his youth, or romantic, embarrassing accounts of when he courted Justin’s mother.

“Poor Mother,” he said aloud, and thought to himself that she would miss her husband terribly. After the funeral was over and all the legal stuff sorted, she would be really miserable. He should stay for at least another week. But could he do that? He thought ahead, and realised that he actually could, for once. He had no more assignments to do for Uncle Robert nor was he needed at the local theatre at present. He had checked with the hospital, and they had said Mr Pettison would be at least three or four weeks in their care.