Too Late to Paint the Roses

by Jeanne Whitmee

  ‘That’ll be all those years of staying in cheap theatrical digs,’ she said. ‘Mutton stew with boiled cabbage and watery mash.’

  I laughed in spite of myself. ‘Don’t ever say that in front of her. Amanda Trent only stayed in the very best five star hotels!’ I took a sip of my coffee. ‘When I went to see her when I first became pregnant I thought we’d established a sort of rapport. I still think there’s another side to her somewhere. I’m just not sure I can be bothered looking for it any more.’

  Mary laid a hand on my arm. ‘Let me have a word with Janet,’ she offered. ‘After all, she is Amanda’s sister. Meantime, I’ve been thinking, business is a bit slack this time of year. If you fancy getting out of the house a bit more why don’t we do a leaflet drop around town? I think the personal touch is better than an ad in the paper. I’ll get some flyers done on the computer; you can help me design something artistic and then we can target places we haven’t tried before.’

  Mary’s idea cheered me up. As I drove home I thought of places we hadn’t previously targeted. Maybe the local schools. They often arranged functions – speech days for instance. We could even offer them special terms. Then there was the local library. They were having a refurbishment at the moment. Maybe they were planning some kind of reopening event.

  At home I went upstairs to change. Looking out of the window I saw Dad busy down in the garden. He’d given the newly discovered lawn its first mowing and was trimming the edges. In the flower beds the daffodils and crocuses were blooming and the forsythia was a mass of bright yellow stars. At the bottom of the garden, fringing the vegetable patch Dad had discovered some ancient fruit trees.

  ‘It’s too late to prune them,’ he told me. ‘But I’ll spray them now and have a good go at them in the autumn. There’s apple and plum and a cherry too,’ he added delightedly. ‘You’ll have plenty of fruit to freeze for the winter.’

  He looked like a new man since he’d been with us. The hollows in his cheeks had filled out and his eyes were bright and clear. He was already tanned from working in the early spring sunshine. Looking after Mother had taken its toll on him; I could see that now and it made me feel guilty that I hadn’t been there for him earlier. I wondered why Ian seemed oblivious to the fact that Amanda was spoiling our new life together. He owed her nothing. All her life she’d put herself first. I’d spoken to him about it several times but every time I raised the subject he waved it aside. Why couldn’t he see that the longer he continued to brush the problem under the carpet, the worse it was going to get? Amanda was becoming a fixture. Why couldn’t he see what it was doing to me – to us?

  I spent the afternoon designing what I thought was an eye-catching leaflet and Mary ran off a few dozen on our firm’s computer. She had made a list too and when she mentioned the idea to Janet she volunteered to join us. Our tour of prospective new clients helped to take my mind off the problems at home and I quite enjoyed myself. The three of us had decided to split up and meet again to discuss our progress over lunch.

  I found the library particularly interested in our service.

  ‘You couldn’t have come at a better time, actually,’ Maureen Jones, the chief librarian told me. ‘We’re planning the reopening to coincide with an author event. The author has roots in this part of the country and his newest book is actually set here so his publisher has asked if we’d launch it here. He’s an international best seller so naturally we’re excited,’ she enthused. ‘It’s an honour. He’s always number one on our waiting lists and it couldn’t have come at a more opportune time.’

  ‘That sounds fascinating.’ I took out my notebook. ‘What’s the date?’ I asked. ‘And the author’s name?’

  ‘It’s planned for the 10th of May and the author’s name is Jake Kenning,’ she told me. ‘He writes detective fiction. I daresay you’ve heard of him. A couple of his books have been adapted for TV. We’re planning to invite the mayor and town councillors to take a buffet lunch first,’ she went on. ‘Then Mr Kenning will cut the ribbon and declare the newly refurbished library open. He’s agreed to give us a talk about his career afterwards and sign books for his many fans.’

  I made a note on my pad. ‘Would you like us to send you some sample menus and prices?’ I asked.

  She nodded. ‘Yes please. They’ll have to be okayed by the powers that be, of course. I don’t have the final say on it.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll email them to you if you like.’ I took down the email address and details of how many people were to be catered for.

  When I told Mary and Janet over lunch Janet beamed with delight. ‘Jake Kenning! He’s one of my favourite authors. He’s brilliant.’ She looked at Mary and me. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him!’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I’m not a great one for novels. My favourite bedtime reading is usually the latest cookery book.’

  Janet laughed. ‘Mary! You’re incorrigible!’ She looked at me. ‘Surely you know his work, Elaine.’

  I frowned, trying to rack my brain. ‘I don’t really get much time for reading,’ I confessed. ‘Though I do like detective plays on TV.’

  ‘Then you must have seen The Mourning Rose? It was on just before Christmas.’

  The title jogged my memory. Ian and I had both enjoyed the two-parter screened a few months ago. ‘Oh yes, we did see that. It was very good.’ I was glad to be able to say I knew the author’s work, even if it was only a TV adaptation.

  That afternoon Mary and I set about compiling and costing three menus for the event. When we were satisfied I emailed them to the library before setting off for home.

  I heard raised voices the moment I opened the porch door and I hesitated, standing back for a moment.

  ‘I won’t have it, do you hear me?’ It was Amanda’s voice, loud and strident. ‘I can’t spend all day with the curtains drawn. I can’t live like a goldfish either. You have to stop gawping at me through the window.’

  ‘I wasn’t gawping at you!’ Dad returned indignantly. ‘I was trying to alert you to the fact that it was raining and you had some washing out.’

  ‘That’s another thing. Why were you ogling my underwear?’

  I heard Dad’s low chuckle. ‘Ogling? Did you say ogling, woman? Why would I want to do anything of the kind?’

  Amanda’s voice rose at least an octave and a half. ‘Because you’re an old pervert, that’s why!’

  I decided it was time to intervene. Stepping through the front door I found them facing each other in the hall. Dad looked annoyed and slightly bemused but Amanda’s face was scarlet with fury. She turned to me.

  ‘No use complaining to you,’ she said. ‘You’ll obviously take his side!’

  I looked at Dad. ‘What’s the problem?’

  He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘You’d better ask her,’ he said. ‘She’s just accused me of being a pervert because I tapped on her window to let her know it was raining.’

  Amanda laughed mirthlessly. ‘Oh yes! It sounds so innocent the way he puts it. The fact is, every time he passes my window he stares in at me. I’ve no privacy at all.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not intentional,’ I offered.

  ‘There! I said you’d take his side.’ Toffee who had been sitting by Dad’s feet suddenly jumped up at Amanda’s skirt. She aimed a kick at him. ‘Get off me, you filthy creature!’

  Toffee let out a yelp and Dad bent to pick him up. He turned to her, his patience clearly exhausted. ‘There’s no need to take it out on the dog,’ he said. ‘If you really want to know, I think there’s something seriously wrong with you. You’re utterly self obsessed and paranoid about just about everything. If you ask me you’ve got a highly inflated opinion of your own importance.’ He gave me an apologetic look and turned to walk up the stairs.

  I looked at Amanda. ‘Maybe we’d better go inside and make you some tea,’ I suggested. ‘You need to calm down.’

  Without a word she led the way into her room. I looked around. The bed was unmad
e although it was late afternoon. The table was littered with magazines and papers and there were used cups and plates everywhere.

  ‘Hasn’t Cleo been in here today?’ I asked.

  She turned to me, pulling herself up to her full height and staring me straight in the face. ‘No. I’ve dismissed her.’

  ‘You’ve what?

  ‘I told her that her services are no longer required,’ she said haughtily. ‘She was impertinent.’

  ‘But you had no right,’ I told her. ‘You are not her employer.’

  ‘She was downright insolent. I won’t be spoken to like that.’

  ‘Like what? What did she say?’

  ‘First of all she had the effrontery to suggest that she and I were the same age! Then she said we had a mutual acquaintance. As if I’d stoop so low as to consort with anyone she’s worked with!’

  I let the age question go. Amanda had always been cagey about her age but Janet had no such inhibition so I knew exactly how old Amanda was. The ‘mutual acquaintance’ was something else.

  ‘I hardly think that’s a sacking offence. You had no right to dismiss her, Amanda. She’s a good worker. Who is going to do the cleaning now – are you?’

  She bridled. ‘Me? Of course not. You’ll have to find someone else.’

  ‘I certainly will not find anyone else,’ I told her, trying hard to contain my exasperation. ‘I shall have to go round to Cleo’s this evening, apologize and ask her to come back. If she agrees I’ll tell her not to touch your room in future. You can do as Dad does and clean it yourself.’

  She began to splutter more protestations but I walked out and closed the door firmly. I didn’t trust myself to stay any longer. This time she had really overstepped the mark.

  After supper I went round to the address Cleo had given me. I’d mentioned the debacle between Amanda and Dad to Ian when Jamie had gone off to do his homework, but as usual he only listened with half an ear.

  ‘You know what she’s like,’ he said dismissively. ‘It’s a storm in a teacup. I’m sure you’ll handle it with your usual diplomacy.’

  I found Verbena Street without too much trouble. It was in the oldest part of the town and consisted of small terraced houses. The door of number six was painted bright blue. I rapped the clown’s head knocker three times and a moment later Cleo opened the door.

  ‘Oh, Mrs M.’ She held the door open. ‘Please come in. I’m ever so pleased you’ve come.’

  ‘Thank you, Cleo. I’m sure you know why I’m here.’

  ‘I think I can guess.’ As I stepped inside she said, ‘I’ll slip through and put the kettle on. I’m sure you can drink a cup of tea.’

  The front door led straight into the living room and I saw that the walls were decorated with photographs of many of Cleo’s show business friends as well as she and her partner, the Great Zadoc. The younger Cleo looked extremely pretty in her glamorous spangled costume and The Great Zadoc (Bert) looked handsome in full evening dress whilst in another shot he was dressed in a leopardskin leotard, clearly about to recline on his bed of nails. Cleo came back into the room and saw me looking at the photographs.

  ‘That’s us in our heyday,’ she said, pointing to a shot of the two of them taking a bow; Bert kissing her hand. ‘I was only sixteen in that one. It was when we played the London Palladium,’ she told me proudly. ‘We was on telly that time, Bert’n’me – Sunday Night at the London Palladium. It was all the rage in the sixties. You wouldn’t remember.’

  I took the cup she handed me. ‘You must miss that life.’

  She smiled wistfully. ‘I do, of course, but all good things ’ave to come to an end, don’t they? Poor Bert passed on several years ago now an’ I couldn’t carry on by meself. We all ’as to move on, don’t we?’

  ‘Cleo, I owe you an apology. Mrs Trent had no right to dismiss you and I’m here to apologize on her behalf. Naturally I don’t want to lose you, so if you can overlook….’

  She was shaking her head. ‘Don’t give it another thought. I don’t want to lose me job anyway.’

  ‘In future you must leave Mrs Trent’s room,’ I told her. ‘I’ve told her she must do her own cleaning from now on. My father does it so why shouldn’t she? And if it means she won’t be arguing with you any more….’

  ‘It were nuthin’ really,’ she said. ‘I just thought she’d enjoy a chinwag about old times. I keep in touch with some of me old mates from showbiz days, y’see, and the other day I ’ad a phone call; turns out this feller used to know her. What a coincidence, I thought, so I told ’er. I thought she’d be chuffed.’

  I was intrigued. ‘But she wasn’t.’

  Cleo puffed out her cheeks. ‘Blimey! You can say that again. Went orf like a bleedin’ fire cracker, she did – if you’ll pardon my French.’

  ‘So – who was this person?’ I asked.

  Cleo refilled our cups. ‘Haydn Jenkins, ’is name is. Welsh feller; used to be stage manager at the Wichhaven Empire.’

  ‘Wichhaven?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s a little town up north – Cumbria – near the lakes. Seems that Amanda Trent was in a company that done a summer season up there.’ She gave me a sly wink. ‘Between you’n’me I reckon they ’ad a bit of a thing goin’.’

  I began to see why Amanda was reluctant to be reminded. Cleo went on. ‘Haydn was ever so pleased to get news of ’er. He was married at the time but he and ’is wife split up years ago and ’e’s retired now o’course. He hinted that he’d like to meet up with ’is old flame again.’

  I bit back a smile. ‘Did you tell her that?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Cleo shook her head. ‘That’s when she kicked orf. Really blew’er top, she did. Made out she’d never ’eard of ’im; called me a liar and a troublemaker.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Cleo. She had no right to speak to you like that, but maybe it would be best if you didn’t mention the past to her again.’ I looked at her. ‘You will come back and work for me again?’

  She smiled. ‘Be ’appy to, Mrs M.’

  ‘See you tomorrow then.’

  ‘Right’y’are.’ She grinned happily. ‘See you tomorrer.’

  Maureen Jones emailed Mary to accept our best buffet menu for the author event at the library. Mary rang me, delighted to report that Councillor Langley had given us a good recommendation, remembering that we had catered for both his daughters’ weddings. This, it seemed, had clinched the deal. ‘Three of the other people we canvassed have booked us too,’ she went on. ‘One wedding and two birthday parties – all for next month, and the high school emailed to ask for our brochure, so our hard work paid off.’

  ‘That’s great news, Mary. It was a good idea of yours.’

  ‘By the way, I had a word with Janet on your behalf after you’d gone home,’ Mary went on. ‘She was sympathetic and said she’d be happy to take Amanda off your hands for a few days’ break – if she’s willing to go. But she doesn’t feel that either of them would want to make it permanent.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I said wryly. I went on to tell her about the row I’d walked into the previous day between Dad and Amanda and my trip to Cleo’s to pour oil on troubled waters. She was sympathetic.

  ‘I don’t know what the answer is, love,’ she said. ‘But at least we have plenty of work coming up now to take your mind off things at home.’

  It seemed ungracious to point out that I’d rather have had a happy home life than lots of work lined up that would distance me even more from my marriage and family.

  On the day of the library’s reopening Mary and I arrived early. Maureen Jones met us, opening the staff entrance for us in a state of suppressed excitement and speaking in breathless, hushed tones as though we were fellow conspirators.

  She was already attired for the event in a pale pink twin set and tweed skirt; her grey hair freshly set in a bouffant style and sprayed to the consistency of candyfloss. She led us upstairs and into the new staff room where we began to lay out our buffet on the two long
tables that had been provided. There was a well equipped kitchen adjoining the staff room and we unloaded the crates of fruit juice, white wine and champagne, putting them into the fridge to keep cool, uncorking the red wine and leaving it to ‘breathe’. By the time we had filled trays with wine glasses and champagne flutes the first of the councillors had begun to arrive. We poured the wine and circulated. Glancing at Maureen I noticed that she was flushed and even more agitated than before as she glanced repeatedly at her watch.

  ‘Is everything all right,’ I asked quietly as I passed.

  She sipped her wine nervously. ‘I thought he’d be here by now,’ she whispered. ‘Our guest of honour, I mean. He said twelve sharp and it’s already half past. We’re supposed to be holding the opening ceremony at two. At this rate there won’t be time to eat your lovely buffet lunch before the opening ceremony.’ She glanced round the room. ‘I don’t know what to do about it or to say to the councillors. They must be wondering what’s happening.’

  I followed her gaze. The councillors: eight men and six women, along with their respective partners, seemed totally unfazed, chatting among themselves and sipping wine quite happily. ‘I wouldn’t worry,’ I said. ‘They look quite content at the moment. I’ll go round and refill their glasses again, shall I?’

  At that moment Maureen’s mobile vibrated in her skirt pocket, making her squeak nervously. ‘Oooh!’ She fished it out and pressed the button. She looked at the display and flushed an even deeper pink. ‘It’s him!’ she hissed at me. ‘Oh my God. I hope nothing’s wrong!’ She turned away into a corner of the room. ‘Hello,’ she squeaked into the phone. ‘Mr Kenning – is everything all right – only we’ve been…. Oh! Yes, I know the traffic gets very bad at this…. I see. You’re driving into town now? Directions? Yes, of course. Where exactly are you? Right – when you cross the bridge turn left – no, no, right at the traffic lights and….’ She continued to give him directions. When she’d finished she snapped her phone shut and looked at me with relief. ‘He’s been stuck in traffic but he’ll be here in about five minutes. I wonder – would you be kind enough to do me a favour and go downstairs to meet him while I explain the delay?’