Theft on Thursday (9 page)

“Any experience of cleaning other people’s houses?” Lois said, picking up a pen.

“Well, I’ve always helped at home,” began Sharon.

“No, I said other people’s houses,” Lois interrupted. “It’s not the same.”

“Oh, right.” Sharon blinked a little. This was a different Mrs. Meade from the one who came into the shop for groceries. “Well, when Mrs. Carr’s been poorly, I’ve given their house a thorough going-through. O’course, they’re both old now, and don’t keep it as spick and span as it should be. Still, after she got better, she asked me if I’d clean them up every now and then, so I have. You can ask them if it’s satisfactory, if you like.”

“I will,” said Lois shortly. Then she put her pen down and grinned. “You’ll do, Sharon,” she said. “What I don’t know about you and your family would go on the back of a postage stamp. When can you start?”

She arranged times and dates, and then gave Sharon a friendly but firm account of how her business worked, what she expected of her cleaners, and what they might encounter in unfamiliar houses. She warned Sharon about finding it very different working as part of a team, respecting her colleagues and keeping strict confidentiality on anything she heard whilst at work.

Lois stressed this last point, knowing Sharon’s reputation for gossip. But most women gossip, and Lois reckoned she could keep it in check, making it clear that
anyone breaking the rule would be out on their ear before they could say sorry.

“Right,” she said, showing Sharon back through the kitchen, where Gran was sitting over a coffee. “See you next week. Weekly meeting Monday midday. I’ll tell you the rest then.”

“Thanks
very
much, Mrs. Meade,” Sharon said, and then smiled at Gran. “You feelin’ better, Mrs. Weedon?” she said. “Nasty old business that. Sandy was really poorly.” She blushed, wishing she’d not mentioned Sandy, but she ploughed on. “Funny nobody else has got the bug. I’d hear if it was round the village. Anyway,” she added quickly, remembering Lois’s strictures, “you’re looking a bit peaky still. Just you take care.”

“Bye, then,” said Lois, opening the back door. “See you on Monday, if not before.”

“Have you set her on, then?” said Gran.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” said Lois.

“Especially with earplugs in and her mouth taped up,” said Derek, appearing at the door. “Just met our Sharon on her way out, and she was all excited about working for you. Hope you know what you’re doin’, me duck,” he said. “Young Sharon is not all she seems, so I hear.”

“If I believed all you hear in the pub,” said Lois, refilling the kettle, “I’d have no cleaners at all. And, by the way, did you hear Mrs. T-J’s had a row with the vicar?”

“Lois!” exploded her mother.

N
OW SHE WAS ALONE AGAIN
, G
RAN PLANNED AN AETER
noon dozing and watching television. But her stomach was still churning. She had little appetite, and the pills the doctor had given her were useless. Maybe she should get some fresh air. A stroll down to the shop. They might have some of her usuals, or a good old-fashioned remedy like that. She fetched her coat and locked up the house. The village
street shone in bright sunlight, the warm, dark gold of the stone houses giving an illusion of summer. But there was a chill in the wind, and Gran stepped out, pulling up her coat collar. The shop was full, with Sharon behind the counter, speedy and efficient. There was no doubt the girl was a worker. Old Mrs. Carr limped in from the back, and Gran felt sorry for her. She was getting past it, without a doubt.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Weedon.”

Bother, thought Gran, just my luck to get the old woman. She had hoped Sharon might serve her, and then she could be back home in a few minutes. Her legs still felt shaky, and she was short of breath. “Afternoon,” she said.

Mrs. Carr settled herself on a high stool, hands on the counter, ready for a chat. “Better now?”

Here we go, thought Gran. Perhaps if I wander about for a few seconds, I might get Sharon. “Just looking for what I want,” she said, walking away and peering at shelves on the opposite side of the shop.

Mrs. Carr followed her. “What is it you’re looking for, dear?” she said.

Gran sighed, and gave in. “Something for indigestion,” she said. “I’m really quite better, but still get a few twinges. Have you got some of my usuals?”

“Temporarily out of stock,” said Mrs. Carr. “But let’s think. Yes, I’ve got just the thing. Just wait a moment while I get them from the storeroom. Here,” she added, pulling a chair towards Gran, “perch yourself on that while you wait.”

The shop door jangled on the old bell, and Sandy Mackerras came in. Sharon’s face was the colour of the tomatoes she was weighing. “Hi, Sharon!” he said cheerily. “How’re doing?”

“Fine, thanks,” she answered, and dropped a tomato, then stepped on it, and in great confusion mopped up the mess.

Sandy grinned, and turned to Gran. “See what effect I have on the girls, Mrs. Weedon,” he said in a mock whisper.

Gran sniffed. “Don’t be so sure it was you,” she said. “Young Thornbull’s just been in talking to Sharon—John’s brother—and he’s a real he-man. Anyway,” she added, with a smile to soften the blow, “never trust ginger hair, my mother used to say. You heard that one, Sandy?”

Discomforted, he went over to the counter and engaged Sharon in a low-voiced conversation. Gran heard the words “Saturday” and “Tresham” and judged from the ecstatic look on the girl’s face that Sandy had asked her for a date. Huh, well, no good could come of that, in Gran’s opinion. He must’ve been stood up. Some smart one with big boobs and plenty of experience would have been his first choice, that’s for sure.

“Here we are, dear.” Mrs. Carr was returning from the stockroom, carrying a box, from the top of which she was blowing a layer of dust. “Just the thing. My mother used to swear by these. Lucky for you we’ve got some left. Hard to find these days.” She took out a rattling box and handed it to Gran.

“Never heard of it,” Gran said. “And there’s no price on it.”

“One pound fifty to you,” said Mrs. Carr, plucking a figure out of the air.

Gran paid, took the box in its bag and put it in her pocket, and returned slowly up the High Street. Jamie was waiting outside the house. “Where’ve you been, Gran?” he said. “You’re not supposed to be out on your own yet. Mum’ll be furious.”

“Then we won’t tell her,” Gran said.

M
RS
. C
ARR
’
S REMEDY HAD NOT DONE
G
RAN MUCH
good. She’d sucked one of the big white tablets as instructed, and not only felt no calmer, but the reverse. She’d spent the afternoon trotting up and down stairs, and by the time Lois came in, she had her feet up on the sofa, looking very wan.

“Just making myself comfortable,” she said, as Lois looked worriedly at her. She had no intention of telling Lois about the tablets. Self-doctoring was not allowed in Lois’s house, and the medicine cabinet in the bathroom held Elastoplast, throat sweets, and not much else.

“I had a little walk, and managed fine,” Gran lied. “Saw Sandy Mackerras, and he asked about choir practice tonight. I thought I might try to go along. It’d cheer me up.”

“You are certainly
not
going down there to a cold church, standing on a hard floor for hours! For God’s sake, Mum, use your famous common sense. Jamie can take an apology.”

But when time for practice came, Jamie rang Lois on his mobile to say he and Annabelle had missed the bus from Tresham, and they couldn’t get back until later. “Oh, sod it!” Lois said. She was tired, and looking forward to a quiet evening. “Can’t you ring Sandy? Oh, all right, I’ll go down and tell them. But just be a bit more responsible in future.” She banged the telephone down, and pulled on her jacket. “Shan’t be long,” she called out, and marched off down the darkening street.

The lights were on in the church, and Lois walked smartly up the path. “Watch out, missus!” said a voice from the shadows. It was Cyril. “There’s a bit of broken paving by the door,” he added. “Frost, or summat. Don’t want you goin’ arse over tip, do we.” His chesty chuckle masked the sound of voices warming up.

“Thanks, Cyril,” she said, and tried to move on, but he blocked her way. “Didn’t know you was in the choir,” he said. “Thought it was your mother. Now, there’s a lovely woman.”

“Pity I don’t take after her, then, Cyril,” said Lois, and edged past him into the church.

“Ain’t she better?” he called after her.

“Yes, thanks,” she yelled back, and carried on into the chilly interior.

All heads turned towards her as she walked up the aisle.

“Mrs. Meade!” said Sandy, with a broad smile of welcome. “How splendid! Now, are you soprano or alto?”

“More like frog,” said Lois flatly. “I’ve just come to bring apologies from Mum and Jamie. Mum’s still poorly, and Jamie’s stuck in Tresham. They said sorry and they’d be here next week.”

Before Sandy could reply, Mrs. T-J burst out, “Stuck in Tresham? What d’you mean? How are they getting back? I don’t want Annabelle put at risk in that place at night!”

Lois turned on her a full basilisk stare, and said “She’s not at risk. She’s with Jamie, and he’s quite capable of
looking after her. They’re getting a lift, an’ will be back about half-past nine.”

She turned to go, but Sandy said in his best pleading voice, “Oh, do hold on a moment, Mrs. Meade. We’re so short on numbers tonight … wouldn’t you do us an enormous favour and sing a couple of hymns with us? Just this once?”

Lois hesitated. It was not true that she had a voice like a frog. She knew she could sing. Music was the only lesson she enjoyed at school, and several times she’d done solos at school concerts.

Sandy pounced. “There, look, if you could just sit in the alto pew, and we’ll go straight into ‘Lead us, Heavenly Father, lead us.’ ” This had been a regular at school, and Lois was surprised to discover she could remember the alto line. The old heady feeling of singing out lustily in a large space came back to her.

Three hymns later, they paused, whilst Sandy looked up a modern tune in the gold book. “You sing lovely, Mrs. Meade,” said Sharon shyly. The altos were sitting in front of the organ, and Lois had been aware of music being played very well behind her. She was about to say something complimentary in return, when Sandy Mackerras suddenly dropped the book, and bent over double. “Ahhhh!” It was a cry of agony, and Sharon was out of the organ seat in seconds, bending over him and holding his hand.

Without stopping to think, Lois ran out of the church at speed and through the vicarage gate. She banged at the door, thanking God there was a light, indicating the vicar was at home. “Quick,” she said, as he opened up, “come quickly. Sandy’s collapsed. Looks like that stomach bug again.”

The two of them ran side by side, and then Lois allowed Brian to go ahead up the aisle to where Sandy lay stretched
out on the floor, with a kneeler under his head. He was very still.

Lois slowed up, and found herself tiptoeing forward. Nobody said anything, until a sobbing Sharon turned and saw her. “Mrs. T-J’s gone for the doctor,” she said. “He’ll be OK, Mrs. Meade, won’t he?”

Lois looked down at Sandy’s white face, saw the purplish-blue line around his mouth, the froth trickling down his chin, and thought it best not to answer.

A
S DAWN BROKE ON A GREY
,
MISTY MORNING
, B
RIAN
Rollinson sat beside a hospital bed containing the slight, white-faced figure of Sandy Mackerras, son of his dearest friend Gerald, and wept. The nightmare had continued throughout the long hours after Lois Meade had appeared at his door. The doctor had been all efficiency and calm, the ambulance men wonderfully strong and reassuring; but then that girl from the shop had been completely hysterical and upset all the other women in the choir.

It had been left to Lois and Jamie to bring some sense and order, ably assisted by Mrs. T-J. After Sandy had gone, Brian had found himself being organized. “Give me the key,” Lois had said, “and Jamie and me’ll lock up. You get going. Get your car and follow the ambulance. We’ll take care of the rest. You can ring me if you want—let me know what’s happening.”