The Shooting in the Shop (3 page)

The Aladdin’s Cave parallel was emphasized as they
entered the shop that December morning. Stock items
were draped from hooks and hangers, intertwined
with strings of fairy lights. Large candles in sconces
higher up the walls made the scene even more exotic
(and prompted in Carole sour thoughts about health
and safety risks). The effect was studiedly casual, that
apparently random set-dressing which could only be
achieved by meticulous preparation.

If the pot luck element in shopping at Gallimaufry,
the fact that she never knew what she would
find there, was what appealed to Jude, the very same
quality was what had kept Carole away from the place
until that Friday morning. She reckoned there was
quite enough imprecision in life without going out of
one’s way to discover it. Carole Seddon liked to have
things cut and dried.

Of course, the success of a shop like Gallimaufry
would always depend on the mind behind it. An
eclectic buying policy was not necessarily good news,
and the retail trade was littered with businesses that
had gone belly-up because their premises were filled
with stuff that nobody wanted to buy.

But the mind behind Gallimaufry appeared to be
a shrewd one. A careful analysis of the requirements
of Fethering consumers had been conducted and,
rather than filling a single large niche, the new store
had aimed for many small niches.

Though the village had its less salubrious area –
rather appositely called ‘Downside’, some ill-maintained
roads of former council housing to the north – Fethering
was, generally speaking, quite well-heeled. The
bungaloid straggle of interlocking villages between
Worthing and Littlehampton, nicknamed locally the
‘Costa Geriatrica’, contained many people who had
retired on good pensions (in the days when there
were still good pensions to retire on). Even with a
recession looming, there was plenty of spare cash in
the Fethering area. The skill for a retailer was to get
its owners to part with it.

And that was a skill that, gathering from the
crowd when Carole and Jude entered the shop that
Friday morning, the owner of Gallimaufry possessed.
It was also clear, from the lavish embraces they
exchanged, that Jude knew the owner of Gallimaufry
very well.

Introductions were made. Carole silently disapproved
of the woman’s name almost as much as
she did of her shop. Lola Le Bonnier. Surely nobody
was actually christened that? No amount of vindictiveness
of parents could land someone with the
name of Lola Le Bonnier. Maybe it was a misfortune
of marriage.

And the woman was wearing a wedding ring. She
was tall, slender, in her thirties with hazel eyes and
chestnut hair skilfully shaped short around the nape
of her neck. She was dressed rather too stylishly for
Carole’s taste, but there was no denying the look was
effective: an Arran cardigan with impossibly large
wooden buttons over a pink silk T-shirt fringed with
so much lace that it looked like lingerie, and skintight
jeans disappearing into the tops of knee-high
brown leather boots with implausibly high heels.
Carole supposed rather sniffily that if you owned a
shop which sold overpriced knick-knacks, then you
had a duty to dress like an overpriced knick-knack.

‘Hello,’ said Lola Le Bonnier, giving a firm shake to
Carole’s hand. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in here
before, have I?’

‘No,’ came the reply that its speaker knew was too
brusque.

‘Well, browse at will.’ Lola made an elaborate
gesture at her stock. There was something theatrical
about her voice too; it had a husky, breathy,
actressy
quality. ‘Plenty of stuff still here, if you’re looking
for that final present for “the person who has everything”.
All heavily discounted too. Everything must
go. Welcome to credit-crunch shopping.’

There was a wryness in her tone as she said this,
an implication of understatement. Maybe the confidence of Gallimaufry’s champagne opening in
September had been diluted by the harsh realities of
the economic downturn. Perhaps, even though the
shop was crowded, people were more cautious than
they had been about parting with their money.

Certainly the stock was covered with labels bearing
come-ons like ‘Final Reduction’ and ‘50% Off ’.
Carole’s interest was stirred. ‘Overpriced knick-knacks’
held more appeal for her when they ceased
to be overpriced. They’d still be ‘knick-knacks’,
obviously, but it might be worth her casting her eye
over them.

‘Oh, by the way, Lola,’ said Jude suddenly, ‘if you
and Ricky have got any time on Sunday, I’m having
an open house. Starting twelve o’clock, going on till
God knows when. You’d be very welcome.’

Really, Jude, thought Carole, if you go around randomly
scattering invitations to every shopkeeper you
happen to meet, no wonder you haven’t got a very
clear estimate of how many people are going to come
to your party. And I see the timing of the event has
changed. ‘God knows when’ might be very different
from ‘when the booze runs out’.

‘Thanks,’ said Lola Le Bonnier, her response as
casual as the invitation itself had been. ‘I’ll check with
Ricky. Sunday’s Varya’s day off – she’s the au pair,
but Ricky’s mother will be with us by then . . .’

‘Oh, she’s the actress, isn’t she?’

‘That’s right, Jude. Flora Le Bonnier.’

‘You’ve heard of her, haven’t you, Carole?’

‘I don’t believe so,’ came the sniffy response.

‘She is – or at least was – quite a
grande dame
of
the English theatre.’

‘Very
grande
,’ Lola confirmed. She gestured to a
pile of books by the till – glossy hardbacks with a
monochrome glamour photograph of an aristocratic-looking
woman on the front and the title
One Classy
Lady
. ‘Her autobiography. No way I’d get away with
not stocking that in here. But fortunately she’s
devoted to her grandchildren, so we might be able to
leave them with her and come to your party for a
while.’

‘Well, be great to see you if you can make it.’

‘We’ll definitely try.’ Lola looked at her watch.
‘Actually, I’ll ask Ricky straight away. We’re just about
to go up to London for a lunch thing. Christmas “do”
for one of the record companies he’s worked for.’
She looked across at a woman busy dealing with
purchasers behind the counter. ‘Got to be on my
way, Anna.’

There was a slight tug of resentment at the corner
of the woman’s mouth as she took in this information,
suggesting to Carole that maybe Lola made rather too
frequent demands on her to hold the fort. The assistant
was probably early fifties, with thick make-up,
cupid-bow lips, sculpted eyebrows and ash-blond hair.
Marilyn Monroe gone to seed, or perhaps Marilyn
Monroe at the age fate never allowed her to reach.

Carole realized with a slight shock that she did
actually recognize the woman, though she was used
to seeing her with her hair covered by a hat or scarf.
Anna was one of Fethering Beach’s regular dog-walkers.
She had a small West Highland terrier with a
little Black Watch tartan coat. If Carole took Gulliver
out a bit later than usual in the morning, around half
past seven, she would quite often pass the woman.
Being Carole, of course, she had never spoken to
her, just given the abrupt ‘Fethering nod’ of acknowledgement
which was customary at that time in the
morning.

‘All right,’ the woman called Anna replied to Lola,
contriving to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘Will
you make it back before closing time?’

Lola Le Bonnier’s lower lips jutted forward doubtfully.
‘Try to. But when Ricky gets chatting to his
music industry mates, it’s sometimes hard to drag
him away.’

‘We are open till eight tonight.’ Again the woman
put her argument into the words rather than intonation.

Lola was busy reaching behind the counter for a
violent-pink fake fur coat and a bag shaped like an
upmarket leather coalscuttle. ‘I’ll try and get back
before you close. But you and Bex will be OK. You’re
a star. Bless you, Anna. See you, Jude love – hopefully
on Sunday.’

And, without allowing time for any responses, the
owner of Gallimaufry swept out of her shop. Anna
exchanged a look with a teenager whose fringe was
purple-streaked, and who Carole reckoned must be
Bex. The expression of sullen boredom on the girl’s
face suggested that not much help would be coming
from that quarter. Anna would effectively be managing
the shop on her own until eight o’clock.

Jude was already away cooing at the array of discounted
goods that Gallimaufry had to offer, so Carole
thought she’d better join in. She was still slightly
upset by her neighbour’s reaction to her proposed
presents for Gaby and Stephen, but at least she’d
show willing by looking for alternatives.

‘Perfect!’ squealed Jude as her friend approached.
She had perched a tinsel crown on her head, and
she was holding up a box whose contents were a
sudoku jigsaw puzzle. Carole thought it was a pointless
present. Her mental workouts were with words
rather than numbers. Now, if they made a jigsaw of
The Times
crossword, that might have engaged her
attention. Except, of course, you could only answer
the clues once, and when you’d done that, all you’d
be stuck with was a jigsaw.

‘It’s the perfect present!’ Jude continued.

‘For whom?’

‘Georgie.’

Carole had a rule with herself, that she would
never ask for information about her neighbour’s
friends. If such information was volunteered, fine,
but she didn’t want to appear curious. It was a rule
she broke frequently, as she did now, asking instinctively,
‘Who’s Georgie?’

‘Former client of mine. Came with a terrible pain
in the neck.’

‘And you cured her of it. You
healed
her?’ asked
Carole, failing to keep her distaste out of the word.

‘Well, she got better. I think getting divorced probably
was more effective than anything I did for her.
Her husband was the real pain in the neck. Anyway
. . .’ Jude rattled the box – ‘Georgie’s hooked on
numbers. She’ll love this.’

Carole couldn’t stop herself from saying, ‘Well, I
wouldn’t like it.’

‘Nor would I. But that’s the point about presents.
They aren’t meant to appeal to you. They’re meant to
appeal to the recipient. And this particular jigsaw will
suit Georgie down to the ground.’

‘Good,’ said Carole flatly. Then a new thought
came to her. ‘Is Georgie going to be at your open
house?’

‘Possibly. I think I invited her.’ Yet more inappropriate
vagueness about the serious matter of giving a
party. ‘But I’m spending Christmas Day with her. First
one she’s had without the husband around. Which
in one way makes her quite ecstatic, and in another
way worried about being lonely. So I said I’d join her.’

This was new information. Jude had said she was
Christmassing in Fethering, without being more
specific about exactly where in Fethering. But Carole
didn’t comment, instead focusing her attention on the
potential presents on display. She couldn’t see anything
that came within a mile of suitability for either
her son or daughter-in-law. Who could possibly want
a wind-up skeleton? Or an apron in the pattern of
a Friesian cow? Or a Russian Father Christmas doll,
inside which was a smaller Russian Father Christmas
doll, inside which was an even smaller Russian Father
Christmas doll, inside which . . . ? Yes, Gallimaufry
really was a place for people with more money than
sense.

On the other hand, the discounted prices were not
bad. Assuming, of course, that there was an appropriate
price for something you wouldn’t give houseroom
to.

‘Oh, look, these are great!’ Jude enthused.

‘What on earth are they?’

‘They’re finger puppets of famous philosophers.
Look!’ And in no time one of Jude’s hands was playing
host to Socrates, Spinoza, Descartes, Nietzsche
and Wittgenstein.

‘But what
use
are they? Who could possibly need
anything like that?’

‘“Oh, reason not the need!”’ Jude quoted. ‘King
Lear got it right, you know. If we stuck only to what
we needed, life would be a very dull business. It’s the
things we
don’t
need that make it bearable.’

‘I thought you were supposed to have green principles.’

‘What on earth gave you that idea?’

‘Well, come on, Jude, you’re into healing and
wind-chimes and essential oils and joss sticks and
crystals and—’

‘And all other kinds of New Age mumbo-jumbo?’

‘Now I didn’t say that.’

‘No, because I saved you the trouble.’ There was
the shadow of a grin on Jude’s rounded face. She
enjoyed these sparring sessions with her neighbour.
For her they contained a strong element of teasing,
and even Carole didn’t take them quite as seriously as
she used to. ‘Anyway,’ Jude went on, ‘just because I
believe in some things you don’t believe in, it doesn’t
mean I believe in everything you don’t believe in.’

‘So you’re not worried about saving the planet?’

‘Yes, I am, but not to the exclusion of everything
else. I don’t want to save a planet that ends up dull
because nobody allows themselves any kind of indulgence.
It’s the little embellishments of life that make
it worth living. And those embellishments needn’t be
expensive. There’s an old Chinese proverb—’

‘Is there?’ said Carole, with a sniff that summed
up completely her view of old Chinese proverbs.

‘Yes. It says, “If I had one penny left in the world,
I would spend half of it on bread, and the other half
on flowers.”’

Carole sniffed again. ‘The penny isn’t legal tender
in China. It never has been.’

‘I think the proverb may have been translated for
English audiences.’

‘Oh.’

‘Anyway . . .’ Jude’s brown eyes twinkled as
she waved her hand, wiggling Socrates, Spinoza,
Descartes, Nietzsche and Wittgenstein in front of her
neighbour’s face. ‘Do you think these’d be suitable?’