The Sleeping Salesman Enquiry (5 page)

E
ight

“YOU’D THINK IVY
would say ‘please’ once in a while, wouldn’t you?” Deirdre had met Gus walking down to Springfields and the cold wind had brought colour to her cheeks.

“More like a three-line whip!
Be here at four o’clock, and don’t be late!
But it wasn’t quite like that. She did ask me if I was free. Good old Ivy. Where would we be without her sharp tongue and passion for giving orders? I was told by somebody that when she first came here she was very unhappy and lonely. She’d lived in Round Ringford all her life up to then. But my goodness, she was soon having them all running around at Springfields, reorganising things for her!

“Well, here we are, then. All present and correct. Let’s go in and see what the old thing has to tell us this afternoon. Have you ever wondered what dear Roy sees in her?”

Gus shook his head and took her arm. “Love is blind, so they say. In we go.”

They were greeted by Miss Pinkney, who smiled broadly and said that she had with some difficulty turfed out a couple of regular fireside residents and reserved the chairs with newspapers so that they could join Miss Beasley and Mr. Goodman for tea.

“You look frozen, my dear,” she said to Deirdre. “Did you walk all the way from Tawny Wings?”

“It’s all of two hundred yards,” said a brisk voice. Ivy emerged from the lounge and told them to look sharp. “You’re ten minutes late, and me and Roy have waited tea until you arrived. Tell Katya to bring it in now, please, Miss Pinkney.”

“See? She said ‘please,’” whispered Gus into Deirdre’s ear. “Good omen?”

• • •

AFTER GOOD STRONG
cups of tea had been served, with plates of golden cookies, Gus settled back in his chair and asked if the others would like to hear how he’d got on with Roy’s man at the bus stop. Most of the other residents had retired to watch television, and the ones who remained were stone deaf. Inevitably, the tea party took on more of a meeting air. Miss Pinkney came in to put more logs on the fire and to ask them if they would like more tea.

“No, thank you,” said Ivy. “I trust we shall be more or less undisturbed now? There are only three chairs in my bedroom, and the interview room is no doubt damp and cold as usual?”

Miss Pinkney retreated, shutting the lounge door quietly behind her.

“Right, Gus. Off you go.”

“Well, you know I was having another try with the sinister-looking man in black-framed spectacles? This time I had more luck.”

“We know you got on the bus with him and disappeared en route to Thornwell, leaving poor Whippy hooked up outside the shop,” said Ivy. “You can skip that bit, and carry on.”

“Thank you, Ivy. I’ll make the rest as brief as possible. It turns out that he is, after all, the man Roy met. His name is Alfred Lowe, he lives in Barrington in a small cottage, and has been married but separated for thirty years. His wife is younger than him and is still living. She has relations who are supporting her in her attempt to get a divorce. He wants us to get them all, including his wife, off his back.”

“Brilliant report, Gus!” said Deirdre admiringly.

Ivy nodded agreement. “Couldn’t have done better myself,” she said. “But why won’t he divorce her? Surely that would be the most sensible course?”

“Straight to the heart of the matter, Ivy dearest,” said Roy. “Surely, Gus, that would be the simplest answer?”

“As far as I could understand the wicked old bloke, he wants to make her suffer. But he also genuinely objects because of his religion. He is a Roman Catholic, born and bred.”

“Ah, then that is a problem!” said Deirdre. “Do we really want anything to do with this grim old character?”

“Funnily enough,” said Gus, helping himself to a last cookie, “I rather took to him. A wicked sense of humour, and sharp as a pin. If we could find a way of helping him, I’d recommend we take him on. It shouldn’t take much to settle it one way or another. There’s annulment, for one thing. Recognised by the state, but not the RC Church. But it would enable her to have a legal second marriage. Takes forever to get through, and Alf, understandably at his age, doesn’t want the hassle.”

He was quiet now, trying to decide whether to reveal what Alf had said about Roy and Ethel. Perhaps it would be best to keep quiet on that for the moment. Nothing to be gained by spilling it all out when it might well have been another figment of Alf’s fertile imagination. And yet . . .

“I forgot to say, Roy, that he did remember you, and some of your family who’d farmed over towards Settlefield. Did you recognise him at all?”

“What was his name, did you say?”

“Lowe, Alfred Lowe. Bit of a hermit now, so I gather from James in the shop. Doesn’t come out much in the village, but goes twice a week on the bus.”

“Good heavens! I’ve got it! The Lowes were a terrible family! Their farm was a shambles. Broken-down fences, sheep wandering everywhere, fields lying fallow for years. I’m not at all sure I want to be mixed up with them again.”

“But Roy dear,” said Ivy, “this is just one old man, wife deserted him for years, and now wants to wreck his retirement with divorce proceedings, which could be, at the least, lengthy. We’ve nothing else on at the moment, and it might be a useful assignment for us.”

“If you say so, Ivy. It gets my vote, then, so long as it does not prove to be too time-consuming for you to enjoy planning our wedding. And I must say I trust Gus absolutely in his recommendation. Alfred Lowe does sound quite a character. So yes, Gus, I support you.”

“So that leaves me,” said Deirdre. “I must say he doesn’t sound like a man in need of the machinations of the law, church or state. Surely if one of us, maybe me, could go and have a word with the wife? And then I could report to Alf. Try a bit of female charm?”

“Don’t be naïve, Deirdre,” said Ivy sharply. “Alf Lowe sounds very capable of eating you for breakfast! He’s not going to budge from his decision. No, this is going to need thinking out carefully. Gus, you’ve had time to do some thinking since you got back. Anything occur to you?”

“Not much time, Ivy! I think we should all give it some serious constructive thought and come to a decision at our meeting on Thursday. How does that sound?”

“Excellent,” said Roy. “So, now let’s talk about something really exciting, like the forthcoming marriage of Ivy Beasley to Roy Goodman, bachelor of this parish!”

• • •

AS DEIRDRE AND
Gus walked away from Springfields, a few flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

“Fancy a drink?” Deirdre asked.

“Not ’arf,” said Gus. “There was more that I didn’t tell the others, more from that old reprobate, Alf. I’m bursting with it, so if you swear to absolutely cross your heart and hope to die if you reveal the secret, I’ll tell you what else he said.”

“How can I resist? Come on, boy, let’s get back before the storm. Look at that sky—it’s full of snow. You might even get snowed in and have to stay the night, with any luck.”

• • •

“SO DID YOU
enjoy your tea party?” Katya came to collect the cups and saucers and empty plates. She never ceased to marvel at the effect that Miss Beasley had on her associates. They had arrived shivering and miserable from the cold wind, and when she watched them leaving, both Mr. Halfhide and Mrs. Bloxham had a spring in their step, and marched off laughing, arm in arm.

“Yes, thank you, dear,” said Ivy. “The cookies were a triumph. You could market them and make a fortune. I think Mr. Goodman and I will retire for our afternoon snooze now. It is a little late, but we have a great deal to think about. Isn’t that right, Roy?”

“Yes, indeed. Foremost in my mind at the moment is when shall we take our usual taxi in to Oakbridge to choose the wedding ring? And after that, I shall decide on which tailor in town will have the honour of making my wedding suit. How about you, Ivy?”

“I shall close my eyes and try to decide who is the best person of us four to contact Alf’s wife and persuade her to change her mind.”

“Who is Alf, if I may ask? We have no one here called Alf. Is he a friend of yours in the village?” Katya picked up the loaded tray and smiled at them.

“He’s certainly in the village, but we have yet to decide whether he is friend or foe,” said Ivy, and added, “Come along, Roy. Up we go.”

N
ine

THE SNOW OUTSIDE
Alf’s cottage was already four inches deep when he struggled to open his front door and found his wife on his doorstep.

“Go away!” he said, attempting to shut the door. But a ridge of snow, driven against it by the wind, now fell onto his doormat.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alf! Let me in and I’ll clear this lot away with a spade.”

“I don’t need your help, Susan. Just go, and then we’ll both be happy. You know whenever we meet it ends in a flaming row. Just go, while the going’s good.”

“No chance. I haven’t come all this way and got wet feet into the bargain to be turned away by my own husband.”

“Huh! Some husband. You can’t be a husband without a wife, and I haven’t had one of those for thirty years.”

“Oh, not that old thing! Now,” she added, pushing past him into his living room, “where’s your shovel? That’ll do. Then we can shut the door and you can offer me a cup of coffee. We need to have a talk urgently, and we might as well attempt it without you losing your temper.”

“Me! Lose my temper? Not at my age. Brings on a heart attack, you know. You must be thinking of someone else. One of your other husbands, or lovers, or whatever you call them. I’m as calm as can be. So leave my snowy door to me and go home.”

But Susan Lowe was made of sterner stuff, and had no intention of leaving Alf without getting him to promise to go with her to solicitors in Thornwell.

She kicked aside the ridge of snow, saying her feet couldn’t get any wetter, and shoved the door until it closed.

“Now,” she said in a managing voice, “where’s your kettle?”

“Where d’you think it is? In the kitchen, of course. And if you want coffee, you can make it yourself.”

• • •

IVY WALKED ALONG
steadily beside Roy in his trundle until they reached the church gate. As if all necessary summons to attend had been issued, the bells stopped pealing and diminished to a single tolling, warning that the service was about to start.

“Good morning, Miss Beasley. And Mr. Goodman! Allow me to help you alight,” said the churchwarden, who prided himself on giving his warmest welcome to all churchgoers.

“Good morning. And thank you, but Mr. Goodman is perfectly capable of managing,” said Ivy, marching straight past him and up the aisle to the front row of pews. There she stood and waited until Roy caught her up, and then she helped him to sit down. She was still on her knees praying for the whole world, if not the universe, when the vicar entered and the congregation stood with hymnbooks at the ready.

“Welcome, everyone, to our service this morning,” said the vicar, the Reverend Dorothy King. She had had enough of Miss Beasley’s lengthy prayers, calculated, she was convinced, to make her wait, unwilling to interrupt her devotions. But last week she had waited five minutes, and had decided enough was enough.

“Our opening hymn is ‘Who Would True Valour See.’ Number four hundred and five.”

And as a silent postscript she added that she could do with a bit of valour herself to deal with the likes of Miss Ivy Beasley.

The service proceeded smoothly, until the banns were announced. Roy reached across and took Ivy’s cold hand in his warm one.

“I publish the banns of marriage,” said the vicar with a happy smile, “between Ivy Beasley, spinster of this parish, and Roy Vivian Goodman, bachelor of this parish. This is the first time of asking. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare it.”

The usual silence greeted this announcement, and the vicar made a great show of pretended relief. The congregation dutifully tittered.

“First step achieved,” whispered Roy. “Now all I have to do is make sure you don’t escape.” He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek.

• • •

“KISSED ME IN
front of everybody!” said Ivy to Katya at lunchtime. “I could have died with embarrassment.”

“But weren’t you a little bit proud?” Katya smiled sweetly as Roy limped across the dining room to where Ivy sat.

“Proud and pleased,” said Ivy firmly, as Katya held the chair for Roy to sit down. “But I was brought up not to show emotion, you know. We were, in them days. Old habits are hard to break. Now, what have we for Sunday lunch?”

“Roast pork, applesauce, roast potatoes, and parsnips,” the girl said. “And for pudding, Anya has made for you a Polish pudding. With English custard, of course!”

After they had cleared their plates, hungry after the excitement of the morning, Roy turned to Ivy and asked whether she wouldn’t like a little outing to celebrate the first reading of the banns.

“But where shall we go? The pavements are still very slippery. You know you nearly skidded this morning in your trundle, and I was not too steady on my pins.”

“I have checked, my dear. It’s stopped snowing, and the lane up to the cemetery has been completely cleared. We could go as far as you like and turn around whenever you say so. Sunday afternoon in Springfields is exceedingly boring, with all the old dears snoring after their heavy lunches, and television churning out endless sporting fixtures. What do you say?”

Ivy agreed reluctantly. She always had knitting or needlework to occupy blank hours, but she did feel that they should mark their day in some way. “Very well,” she said. “But we must tell Pinkers in case one of us crashes down and there is nobody to rightle us.”

“Like sheep on their backs in a meadow,” said Roy.

“Exactly,” said Ivy.

They wrapped themselves up in scarves and gloves and woolly hats, and set off, Roy in his trundle and Ivy with a stout stick to keep her steady. They were halfway up to the cemetery when they approached a cottage facing directly onto the pavement. Suddenly the door flew open, sending out a shower of dirty snow, and a woman emerged. She saw them just in time, and grabbed the handle of the door behind her.

“Oops! Look where you’re going, you two! You should be safely by the fire at your age, you know. These pavements are dangerous.”

“Susan! Just mind your manners! These two kind people live here, and they don’t expect strange women to jump out in front of them. Sorry, folks! Are you hurt?”

“Well, I’m off, Alf. I’ll be back; you can be sure of that.” Susan Lowe stormed off down the lane, slipping and sliding from side to side and only just remaining upright.

“Good riddance, I say,” said Alf, smiling at Roy. “Women! Pity we can’t do without them.”

“I’m afraid I don’t agree,” said Roy gently. “My name is Roy Goodman, and we have met before. At the bus stop. This is my fiancée, Miss Ivy Beasley. And you, if I’m not much mistaken, are Alfred Lowe.”

“Bless me! If it isn’t old Roy! I only just heard tell you were living in Barrington. After all these years, eh? We must get together and have some reminiscing. But not now, old chap. Time you were getting back. Your fiancée looks blue with cold. Good day to both of you.” He turned back into his cottage and shut the door.

“So that is the nasty old man? The notorious Alfred Lowe?” said Ivy. “If you ask me, he is a polite and pleasant person. Apart from his views on women, of course. Ready to go back now? We can look for your ancestors in the cemetery some other day. What a useful idea of yours to come up here! If I didn’t know you were not a scheming old codger, I’d think you planned it purposely, in the hope we’d meet your new friend Alfred Lowe.”

“Never crossed my mind, beloved,” answered Roy. “Hold on to the trundle if that would make you feel more secure. Look, there’s blue sky over the woods! I can guarantee this slushy stuff will be gone by morning.”

They arrived safely back at Springfields, only to find that a perfectly audible row was going on in the office between Miss Pinkney and Mrs. Spurling, who had returned unexpectedly to find two of her residents out in the raw air of a winter’s afternoon, unaccompanied and still not returned.

“We’re back, Pinkers!” shouted Ivy as they passed the office door. This flew open and Mrs. Spurling came out. “And where do you think you two have been?” she demanded.

“Up to the cemetery,” said Roy, and Ivy knew at once what Mrs. Spurling’s reply would be.

She obliged. “You’ll be up there permanently, if you don’t take notice of Springfields’ rules,” she almost shouted. “Now go and warm up. I’ll send Katya with a nice hot cup of tea.”

“Whisky and hot water, please,” said Ivy. “That’s for Roy. I’ll have a glass of hot ginger ale and lemon. Now, if you will excuse us, we will go and change our socks.”