When Archie Met Rosie

by Lynda Renham

  ‘You must be desperate to see her,’ says Joy, peeking through a gap in the curtains.

  ‘I just saw her poke her head through the upstairs curtain,’ calls one of the women.

  I open the letterbox.

  ‘Pat, it’s Rosie Foster. Open the door. I’m mad enough to kick it down if you don’t.’

  ‘Crikey,’ says Joy. ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘What’s she done?’ calls one of the other women.

  It’s not a bit like the Tradmore Estate now I come to think about it. A whiff of trouble and everyone makes out like nothing is happening. Not here. A bit of a commotion and the whole street comes out, it seems.

  There’s movement behind the door and then it opens slightly.

  ‘You’re making a scene,’ says a hoarse voice.

  ‘Let me in then.’

  ‘Pete said you had some money for me,’ says Pat.

  I push at the door almost sending her flying. Joy tries to follow me in, but I slam the door shut. The house stinks of cats and stale beer. I wrinkle my nose.

  ‘I’d have cleaned up, but I didn’t know you were coming,’ she says.

  She’s wearing a silk kimono. Her dyed blonde hair is askew, and she smells of stale cigarettes. What was Frank thinking? There’s a bit of rough and a bit of rubbish. Frank always did get things mixed up.

  ‘Frank owed money. No doubt borrowed so he could buy you lots of lovely things,’ I say, looking around her living room. ‘I imagine that kimono was one of them.’

  The living room is lit by a single lamp. The room’s a tip.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ she asks.

  There’s a loud squeal as I step on one of her numerous cats.

  ‘Careful,’ she snaps.

  ‘I need all the things of value that Frank gave you. I have to pay his debts,’ I say firmly.

  My eyes land on a sparkling diamond on her finger.

  ‘Oh no,’ she says, backing away. ‘Frank gave me that. It’s special. It’s my engagement ring.’

  ‘He was married to me, you stupid mare. He couldn’t get engaged to you.’

  ‘He was going to divorce you.’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Hand it over.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Frank never had any money so that ring was bought with money he borrowed, and it has to go back. I’ll have that fur coat you were wearing at the funeral, too.’

  She hurries to the front door.

  ‘You haven’t got anything for me at all, have you? You lied. You can leave now.’

  ‘I’m not going until I have that ring and coat,’ I say, without any clear idea of how I’m going to get them.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she says.

  That was it really. I’m mild mannered as a rule but things are really starting to get me down. Let’s face it, everyone has walked over Rosie Foster. Frank walked over me every single day and look what he was doing behind my back.

  ‘Right, fine,’ I say determinedly. ‘I’ll send Matt Fisher around. He’s the one owed the money. I’ll tell him about that ring. Be prepared, he won’t be as nice as me. Most likely he’ll kick your door down without knocking.’

  Her eyes widen.

  ‘He’ll cut your finger off too, if necessary but I want him off my back so he’s all yours.’

  I stroll to the front door where Joy and her neighbours are waiting outside amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Hold on,’ calls Pat nervously. ‘I don’t want Matt Fisher here. I’ll give you the coat.’

  ‘I want the ring,’ I say.

  ‘Frank will be turning in his grave.’

  ‘He would if he was in one. Didn’t you notice he was cremated?’

  ‘Can I have his ashes?’ she asks tearfully.

  ‘You’re too late. I flushed them down the loo.’

  The women gasp.

  ‘Oh my godfathers,’ says Joy, shocked.

  ‘How could you?’ cries Pat.

  I shrug.

  ‘I couldn’t actually, you’re quite right. Anyway, I’ll give Matt your address. Good luck.’

  I’m almost out of the door when she grabs my arm.

  ‘Alright.’

  She pulls the ring off and hands it to me.

  ‘Can I keep the coat? It’s the only one I’ve got.’

  I nod and tuck the ring into my bag. The coat wouldn’t fetch much anyway.

  ‘I don’t really want the ashes,’ she says quietly. ‘He was a selfish arse.’

  I can’t disagree with that.

  ‘Don’t tell Matt Fisher where I live.’

  I give a nod and see myself out. The door closes behind me and I wade through the cigarette haze.

  ‘All sorted then?’ asks Joy.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  I walk to the bus stop with my head held high.

  Chapter Thirty

  Rosie

  ‘It was a gangland killing,’ says Becky. ‘Apparently the husband and …’

  ‘I don’t want to know,’ I interrupt.

  ‘It was Russians that did it,’ she says, like knowing it was Russian thugs would somehow make me feel loads better.

  I wonder if Becky will clean my little flat after Matt Fisher has finished with me. She won’t thank me. Those stairs are heart attack inducing. It’s all I can do to get up them these days. I’ve been tempted to get into the lift, but the thought of Matt Fisher diving in after me has sent me trudging up the stairs. It’s slow progress when you keep stopping to look over the stairwell. I hate these early nights when it’s dark by four o’clock. I’m not quick enough for the timer these days. I’m always three steps away when it clicks off. I almost wet myself going up those three steps, I don’t mind telling you. I fully expect a knife in my back. I’m sweating buckets by the time I switch the timer back on. I swear these stairs have taken ten years off my life. It was a total waste of money buying a jar of La Prairie face cream. I keep looking for a difference, but I can’t see any. It takes time I imagine. I suppose it took a hell of a time for me to look like this in the first place, so it’ll take a hell of a lot longer to repair won’t it? There’s not been any sign of Matt Fisher since that night. I imagine he’s just biding his time. Meanwhile I’m aging by the second. Still, I have the ring to barter with. I’ve no idea what it is worth. But the diamond looks real, so it must be worth a bit. To think Frank couldn’t be bothered to buy me a new wedding ring. I sigh. I really should collect the ashes.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asks Becky.

  ‘I’m tired,’ I admit.

  ‘You’ll get a nice break over Christmas,’ she smiles.

  That’s the other thing. It’s been over a week since Archie mentioned Paris and I just don’t know what to do. I’m supposed to be thinking it over. He must think I’ve got sawdust for brains if it takes me this long. I daren’t tell Becky. If she knew of my friendship with Archie she might get someone else to clean Archie’s house. As it is we’re conducting our friendship in such a clandestine fashion that you’d think we were having an affair. Archie doesn’t want his Harry to find out.

  ‘They’ll get it all out of proportion,’ he’d said.

  I haven’t mentioned anything to Sam either. Although I did tell the truth about the bingo win.

  ‘Ah, that explains it then,’ he’d said.

  ‘Explains what?’ I’d asked.

  ‘Why Maureen was on my doorstep going on about it.’

  ‘Maureen?’ I’d said aghast.

  That little cow, honestly. Where there’s money, there’s Maureen. I tell you, it’s a true saying that money is the root of all evil. If Frank hadn’t spent so much on that brassy blonde of his he may not have got into such terrible debt. Mind you, Frank was always broke. Frank and money just never went well together. If they had, we could have taken out a mortgage. I blame myself really. I was too accepting of my lot. I should have expected more but for some reason I didn’t. I had this stupid mentality
that people like us don’t have fancy houses or money in a savings account. Now look at me. I have almost five thousand in the bank and I’m having the devil’s own job hanging onto it. I should spend it. Spend the whole lot. No one can have it if I’ve spent it, can they?

  I follow Becky into the cordoned off flat.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can change?’ she asks the police officer at the entrance.

  This is only our second murder. I rather think Becky and I had a morbid view on life in Essex if we really thought they’d be one a week. Of course there wouldn’t. Becky said we could do others, but we’d need to travel. I don’t want to travel miles just to clean. Becky said she might, but she’s got a family to feed.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ says the police officer with a comforting smile.

  I really don’t know what I’m doing cleaning up murder scenes. The things we do for money huh? It always comes back to that doesn’t it?

  My phone bleeps and I pull it from my pocket. It’s a message from Archie. Are you doing a murder?

  Oh dear. I’d better delete that message once I’ve replied to it. It looks pretty odd otherwise. I’ll probably need to delete my reply too.

  Yes, just starting one. Is everything okay?

  Archie has never texted me before. I gave him my number weeks ago when I first started cleaning his house, but I never imagined he would use it. It’s been several minutes now and still he hasn’t answered. Becky has tapped away numerous messages while I’ve been waiting.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she says.

  I look down at my phone. I wonder if I should phone him.

  ‘I’ll be there in a sec,’ I say.

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ she says, pulling on her protective face mask.

  ‘Latest fashion?’ laughs the police officer.

  It’s odd how people can easily laugh at others misfortune isn’t it? I stare at my phone, willing Archie to message me. It’s been ages. Right, that’s it. I’d better phone him.

  ‘Sorry. I can’t do this texting malarkey. Are you free later?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m doing a late shift at Waitrose.’

  ‘You’ll kill yourself you will. I want to show you something. We can get some lunch.’

  I can’t have lunch out with Archie. What if people see us?

  ‘I …’

  ‘What time will you finish the murder?’

  ‘About twelve I imagine.’

  ‘Great. Do you know The George in Gidea Park?’

  ‘I’ve seen it.’

  ‘See you there sometime after twelve?’

  ‘Rosie?’ calls Becky.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I say.

  ‘See you later.’

  I push my phone into my pocket and don my outfit. What am I doing? I can’t meet Archie. What would Becky say? It’s unprofessional isn’t it?

  ‘Don’t be a tit,’ whispers a voice in my head. ‘It’s only lunch.’

  I’m being silly, aren’t I? It’s okay to meet for lunch isn’t it? I’m not planning on going back to a hotel with him, am I? Can you imagine, at my age? I can just picture Moira’s face. She’d be mortified. It’s probably worth it just to see her reaction. I smile to myself and then hurry up the stairs to the flat.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Moira

  Moira examined her newly painted finger nails.

  ‘All ready for Christmas?’ asked Amanda, packing away her manicure gear. She looked back at Moira’s nails and nodded with approval.

  ‘Not many women can carry off that colour, but you do it marvellously,’ she said.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ purred Moira.

  ‘Are you at home for Christmas?’ asked Amanda.

  ‘Yes, but we’re always busy at Christmas,’ Moira sighed. ‘Of course we’ve got Harry’s play. I thought I’d do a little party afterwards, you know, for all the cast.’

  Amanda felt her face grow hot at the sound of Harry’s name.

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ she said.

  Moira climbed carefully onto Amanda’s couch.

  ‘Just half a leg today,’ said Moira.

  ‘Of course,’ said Amanda carefully taking her waxing materials from her bag.

  The mention of Harry had thrown her into a bit of a tither. She wondered if she should tell Moira what she’d seen. It was difficult to find the words though and she didn’t want to start poking a hornet’s nest. After all, Moira was only a client. If she’d been a close friend it might have been different. All the same, even telling a close friend that you’d seen her husband at a hotel with another woman would be difficult. What if it hadn’t been Harry Bolton? She didn’t want to stir up trouble when there wasn’t any. She had only met Harry the once and she was doing Moira’s underarms at the time, so she could easily be mistaken. All the same, she felt sure the man she’d seen at the Park Hotel in Thurrock was Harry. She’d said hello, but he’d not heard her. He’d walked straight past her and into the arms of a very attractive brunette. Amanda had quickly dived through the doors. She couldn’t believe she had seen Moira’s husband with another woman and at a hotel too. It could only mean one thing. He obviously hadn’t expected to see anyone he knew. No doubt that was why they were in Thurrock. Amanda wouldn’t have been there herself if it hadn’t have been for the wedding. She’d been pretty knackered after doing all those bridesmaids’ nails, so there was every chance she could have been mistaken and it hadn’t been Harry Bolton at all. It was best not to say anything, she decided. Don’t rock the boat, her mother always said.

  ‘Don’t forget to put the towel on the table,’ said Moira breaking into Amanda’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ said Amanda, carefully placing her things on the towel that Moira had provided. It really wasn’t big enough for everything but she daren’t put her stuff on the floor. Amanda wasn’t at all comfortable in Moira’s house. It wasn’t natural to have a house so immaculate. The floors were so well polished that her socks slid on them. Moira always had vases of perfectly arranged roses. There wasn’t one wilted petal amongst them. Not like Amanda’s flat where there were vases of dead carnations. Even the flowers were afraid to die in Moira’s house. Amanda thought it was no surprise that Harry’s eyes had wandered. Poor bloke was probably stifled, thought Amanda.

  The doorbell rang, and Amanda jumped, dropping the wax strip she was holding. She dived after it, catching it in the nick of time.

  ‘It didn’t go on the carpet did it?’ asked Moira alarmed.

  ‘No, I caught it in time,’ said Amanda shakily. ‘Shall I get the door for you?’

  ‘Thanks Amanda. I can’t think who it could be,’ Moira sighed, irritation evident in her voice. ‘I didn’t arrange anything because I knew you were coming. It’s the perils of being a counsellor.’

  Amanda rolled her eyes and hurried to the front door, relieved to be out of the stuffy lounge. Celia Richardson stood on the doorstep.

  ‘I’ve come to see Moira,’ she said briskly.

  ‘I’m in the lounge Celia,’ called Moira. ‘Is everything okay with Dad?’

  Celia pushed past Amanda and strode into the lounge.

  ‘I think there’s something you should know about Alfred,’ declared Celia.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Rosie

  I’m knackered. The thought of dragging my tired body to Waitrose for a late shift sends my head into a spin.

  ‘Thanks Rosie,’ says Becky helping me with my stuff. We shove it into the boot and I let out a little sigh.

  ‘It was a tiring one, wasn’t it?’ she says, brushing stray hairs from her face.

  I look back at the flat.

  ‘You’re not still worried about Matt Fisher, are you?’ she asks.

  ‘Just a touch,’ I say forcing a laugh. ‘I bet he knew the thugs that did that,’ I say nodding towards the flat.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You looked knackered.’

  ‘Well, like you say, I’ll get a break over Christmas.’

  Who knows, maybe Christmas in Paris?


  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ waves Becky.

  I wave back and climb into my car to drive to The George. Except when I arrive at the pub it isn’t The George at all but The Swan. How could I have got those two mixed up? I tell you, the menopause has got a lot to answer for. Now, I have no idea where to go. I’m already late and I feel myself getting tearful again. Honestly, it’s ridiculous. I’m crying about everything these days. I even shed a few tears this morning because the milk was off. I mean, seriously, that’s surely telling you it’s time to get a grip, isn’t it? I try to message Archie to ask where the pub is, but I don’t have enough reception on my phone.

  ‘Damn it,’ I say bursting into tears.

  In the rear-view mirror I see a police car pull up behind me and realise I’m on a double yellow line. I roughly wipe away my tears and open the window.

  ‘Everything alright?’ asks the policeman peering in through the window.

  ‘I’m a bit lost,’ I answer, trying not to let my lips quiver.

  A bit lost is an understatement isn’t it?

  ‘You do realise that you can’t park here?’

  ‘I … yes …’

  ‘Where do you want to go?’

  I mumble the name of the pub.

  ‘Alright love, you’re not far away. Follow me.’

  Great, I’ll arrive to meet Archie with a police escort. He’ll wonder what on earth has happened. I only hope if Matt Fisher is on my tail, it will well and truly put him off.

  *

  Archie is pacing up and down outside The George. He looks quite anxious. He’s warmly dressed though so at least I don’t have to worry about him catching pneumonia. He’s wearing a nice thick overcoat. I bet that cost a few bob. I’m in a real quandary about lunch. I remember the pub now. I came here once with the Waitrose Christmas do. It’s pricey and I really should offer to pay my half. Men don’t pay for women these days do they, and rightly so too. I don’t want Archie thinking I’m a gold-digger. The truth is I’d never spend more than a tenner on a meal out. I suppose I can afford to spend more but it doesn’t seem right to me to spend a lot of money on food when other people are starving. I suppose that’s daft really. After all, not eating isn’t going to help the starving is it? If I really wanted to help them I’d give them my five thousand, or at least what’s left of it. It’s just, I can think of better things to spend money on than a meal out in a fancy restaurant.